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PLEASE, DO NOT COME ANY NEARER 


Page 266, 



Michael 

Carmichael 


Graphically Illustrate^' 


Laird & Lee, Chicago 


K A Story of Love and Myster\ 


Miles Sandys 


Character is what we are in the dark. 



THP LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 
Tvvo Cowee Received 

JUL. 19 1902 


^ CoPVmOHT ENTRY 

C3i* .ASS XXo. No. 

3 6 -/^ 

COPY 8. 


1 


Entered according to act Act of Congress, in the year 1902, 
By WILLIAM H. LEE 

the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


Contents 


PAGE 

Preface, 9 

Chapter I. Gopher City, 13 

“ II. Making for the Kingdom, . . . *31 

“ III. Gilbert’s History, 47 

“ IV. Beulah, . . ' 62 

“ V. The Plot, ' . .80 

“ VI. Janeville, 98 

“ VII. Judith, 1 17 

“ Vin. A Dark Motive, 135 

“ IX. A Disappearance, 151 

“ X. Preparing the Evidence, . . . .170 

■ “ XI. Sold at Auction, 187 

*• XII. Unexpected Difficulties, .... 204 

“ XIII. A Troubled Conscience, . . . .221 

“ XIV. A Strange Declaration, .... 238 

“ XV. The Love of Woman, . . . *255 

“ XVI. A Letter Returned, . . . . _ . 273 

** XVII. Crossing the River, 289 

“ XVIII. Michael Carmichael’s Repentance, . . 309 






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FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS 


“PLEASE, DO NOT COME ANY NEARER. ” 


Frontispiece 

Opposite 

Page 


ENTERING THE KINGDOM 

“THIS IS YOUR FAMOUS SPECULATION, IS IT?" 

“ YOU ARE A SWEET AND NOBLE WOMAN. ” 

“ WHY, YOUR WIFE IS THE BETTER SOLDIER. " 

HE WENT INTO THE GRAVE ONCE MORE. 

SOLD AT AUCTION, ... .... 

BEFORE I HAD TIME TO CRY OUT A WORD OF WARNING, 
THE BLOW FELL 

THIS TIME IT WAS A HUMAN VOICE 


50 

82 

130 

146 

178 

194 

290 

306 


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4 


PREFACE 

AS TO THE LATE MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


It is well known that the late Mr. Michael Car- 
michael, having no living relatives, made a will be- 
queathing all his property, personal and real, to Tu- 
dorville College, to become a part of the permanent 
endowment of that institution. There was a condition 
annexed to the will, to-wit, that the narrative con- 
tained in the following pages be printed and pub- 
lished, the proceeds, if any, to be given to the local 
society for the prevention of vice. As president of the 
board of trustees for the college, I was named in the 
will as executor. In the interests of the institution, it 
becomes my duty to see that the condition of the be- 
quest is fully performed. Strictly speaking, my duty 
ends with the publication of the book, yet, because of 
the extraordinary character of the narrative, it may 
be that a few words of comment from me will be ac- 
ceptable to the readers — especially to such of them as 
did not know Mr. Carmichael personally. 

It may interest them to know that, while a young 
man, he suddenly gave up his practice here and went 
to the Western country. Why he went and where, was 


— 9 — 


PREFACE. 


never known with certainty. It is also true that he re- 
turned some years later, quite suddenly and unex- 
pectedly. He resumed the practice of his pro- 
fession and prospered financially, so that he was 
accounted a rich man. From the time of his return to 
the day of his death, he was prominent in church af- 
fairs. Yet, to the end of his life, public opinion was 
divided on the question of his sincerity. He had en- 
emies who did not hesitate to say that he was a cold- 
blooded, sleek, demure hypocrite, who wore the livery 
of heaven that he might better serve the devil. On 
the other hand, his numerous friends called attention 
to the fact that he was, in his outward life, neither 
lewd, profane nor a drinker; that he was constant in 
his attendance at church, and strictly honest in the 
payment of his debts. There were always rumors, 
dark and ugly, touching that period of his life covered 
by his sojourn in the West. Whether true or false, 
these rumors were strong enough, at a critical time, 
to defeat him in his candidacy for an important office. 
It was, as I believe, while smarting from the sting of 
this defeat, that he began this narrative. Concerning 
the story itself there are two theories : What may be 
called the charitable theory, and what is called, by 
his friends and admirers, the uncharitable theory. 

First, as to the charitable theory. While it is, as I 
have said, highly probable that he began to relate the 
facts as they actually occurred, it is also possible that, 


— 10 — 


PREFACE. 


by the time he had written the first three chapters, the 
pride of authorship tempted him aside, as it were, into 
the by-paths of fiction, so that he ended by writing a 
novel, where he had intended to write a history. If 
it be objected to this, that he would hardly give his 
own name to the principal character in a mere novel, 
it must not be forgotten that he did not begin it as a 
novel. If he had lived, he might have revised his 
manuscript, giving that character another name. 

Second, as to the uncharitable theory. This is the 
theory that he has written the truth, that the book is 
no novel, but a true history of the life of Mr. Car- 
michael during several years. It is not easy to be- 
lieve that a man would write such things about him- 
self, however true they might be. Still more difficult 
to understand why, having written them, he should be 
so determined to have them published. Yet who is able 
to say of human vanity, “Thus far it can go, and be- 
yond this it cannot go?” The every day experiences 
of life prove, over and over again, that the rascal is 
ever the vainest of men, as full of egotism as an egg 
is full of meat. To tell a story like this, in an able 
manner, may have been a temptation too strong for 
Mr. Carmichael to resist. His best friends must, in 
fact, admit he was manifestly vain of his undoubted in- 
tellectual powers. 

In conclusion I wish to say: 

1. If this story is a novel there can, of course, be 


— 11 — 


PREFACE. 


but one opinion of the principal character. He is, 
from first to last, a fit companion for his accomplice 
and alleged tempter, Gilbert. In the end he did not 
get what he deserved, but he certainly deserved all he 
got. 

2. If the story is true in every part; if it was really 
written as a vindication of the conduct of Michael 
Carmichael in his relation to the persons and events 
herein described, it signally fails of its purpose. 

On either theory it is not hard to understand why 
it was not published in the lifetime of the man who 
wrote it. Respectfully, 

JOHN LISLE. 

Tudorville, January, 19 — . 


— 12 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


CHAPTER 1. 

GOPHER CITY. 

I was only nineteen years old when I completed the 
course of study in our college here. Young as I was, 
I stood at the head of my class and received its high- 
est honors. I then entered the law office of General 
Erastus Coldbank, as a law student. My close appli- 
cation to my studies, and the readiness with which 
my mind seemed to grasp the deepest principles of 
jurisprudence, astonished and delighted my venerable 
preceptor. On my twenty-first birthday I applied for 
a license to practice law in the courts of my native 
state. I was subjected to a very rigid examination as 
to my qualifications, and was happily able to demon- 
strate my fitness for my chosen profession to the entire 
satisfaction of the veteran members of the bar ap- 
pointed to examine me. Unfortunately for me, I was 
seized, about this time, with what we used to call the 
'‘Western fever.'’ Instead of settling down to the 
practice of the law, in my native town, as I should 
have done, I decided to go to Gopher City, which 
was then at the height of that phenomenal prosperity 
— 13 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


which made it, for a time, the Mecca of all adventur- 
ous spirits. 

Of my life in Gopher City I can say little here. It 
is only of the cause of my leaving there that I desire 
to write at this time. To state this, briefly as pos- 
sible, is a duty I owe to myself and to my friends. 
From time to time highly colored, grossly inaccurate 
statements of that affair have been circulated in this 
community; and there is no disguising the fact that 
these reports have been set afloat with the design of 
hurting my reputation. I am now persuaded that the 
time has come for me to tell the plain, unvarnished 
truth. The truth cannot injure me as much as the 
fantastic lies told by my enemies. 

Europe, Asia, Africa, Polynesia, most of the larger 
towns in the United States, and many of the smaller 
ones, were represented in the population of Gopher 
City. A wicked town, I grieve to say — as wicked as 
any this side of the place where the worm dieth not. 

It would afford me much pleasure to refute, one by 
one, the senseless calumnies concerning my manner 
of life in Gopher City. It has been said that I was a 
“blackleg,” a “bully,” “cruel as Satan,” “rapacious as 
a wolf,” — and so on, down a very long catalogue of 
possible and impossible sins and shortcomings. Not 
a word of truth in any of these charges. All heartless, 
brutal calumnies. The truth is that — I may say it with- 
— 14 — 


GOPHER CITY, 


out boasting — I moved in the best society the place 
afforded. It may be that, in some minor points, our 
notions of refinement and culture were not up to the 
Eastern standards, assuming that Eastern standards 
are infallible; but, such as our best society was, I 
was in it and of it; and I was not its most insignificant 
or least conspicuous member. This is all I care to 
say on this subject at this time. 

In the practice of my profession I prospered be- 
yond my most sanguine expectations. I had an ele- 
gantly furnished office over the Rock Crystal saloon, 
which was then by far the most aristocratic establish- 
ment of the kind in Gopher City. It has long been a 
matter of regret to me that I should have chosen such 
a place for my business. Really, from a financial 
standpoint, it was what local newspapers described as 
a “good stand,” and that was a prime consideration 
with me in those days. Alas, I was yet in the gall of 
bitterness and in the bond of iniquity. 

I had not been there long before the mayor and 
board of aldermen appointed me to the office of city 
counselor; thus I had the honor to be officially con- 
nected with the town in the days of its greatest splen- 
dor and prosperity. I might, if I could spare the time, 
give many interesting details of our practice there, 
for the courts were by no means the dull, uninterest- 
ing places they are in the staid, conservative East. I 
— 15 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


must content myself with the remark that I easily fell 
into the ways of the country, doing a maximum of 
business with a minimum of personal injury. 

June is the beginning of months, as far as this his- 
tory is concerned, for it was three o’clock, on a balmy 
June morning, when I committed that unfortunate 
deed which has ever since been, to me, a cause of the 
bitterest regret. It all happened in the “card parlor” 
of the Rock Crystal saloon. This was a large apart- 
ment reserved exclusively for the use of card players. 
It ran parallel with the saloon proper, the entire length 
of the building. Between it and the bar-room there was, 
in the partition, a wide curtained doorway, so that 
patrons of the bar might pass conveniently to the card 
tables, while the patrons of the card tables were in 
easy reach of the bar. Either room might be entered 
from the street. The house was a wooden structure 
in the middle of a block of wooden buildings. 

I was seated at one of the tables in this “parlor.” 
With me were the mayor, the town marshal, and the 
town clerk, so that ours was what might be called 
an “administration party.” We were engaged in a 
game which, if I do not forget, was called “poker.” 
“Draw poker” was, I believe, what they called it in 
those days. It may even yet be known by that name, 
for anything I know to the contrary. 

The mayor owned the saloon. He was a highly- 
— 16 — 


GOPHER CITY. 


respected citizen. He was rich, and he had every 
prospect of becoming richer; the Rock Crystal saloon 
was called, by the people of Gopher City, “the best 
paying gold mine in the West.” It follows that he 
was a man of much influence in the community; and 
therefore I had taken care to be on good terms with 
him. We had grown to be very intimate, our rela- 
tions, personal and official, being of the most cordial 
nature. He was a man of some culture, but was 
chiefly admired for his personal courage, which was 
very great. His judgment, in the particular kind of 
game we were playing, was held in such high regard 
that not many people in Gopher City would play 
against him. When the mayor took a hand, the game 
ceased to be, in the opinion of many people, a game 
of chance. He had a temper which may be described 
as Satanic. This was his greatest fault and, as it 
proved, his greatest misfortune. The most remark- 
able thing about him, when moved to anger, was his 
manner of expressing his wrath. A quiet man under 
ordinary circumstances, he became, if possible, a 
little more quiet under the influence of rage. A pale 
man, ordinarily, he would grow a little paler as his 
indignation waxed hot. A fluent man at most times, 
his language, when angered, became something more 
than mere fluency; it rose almost to the dignity of elo- 
quence. He had a wonderful vocabulary of abusive 
— 17 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


words and a way of fitting and applying them to the 
matter in hand that was marvelous. No thoughtful, 
educated man could listen to him for five minutes, 
under such circumstances, without being profoundly 
impressed with the awful possibilities of invective that 
lie in the English tongue. His friends who were, as 
I have been informed, so indignant about what they 
were pleased to call the “deep damnation of his taking 
off,” must have realized that Gopher City was no 
favorable environment for a man of his peculiar 
talents. 

As I remember this man, he was tall, with dark, 
brown beard trimmed to a point — what is called a 
Vandyke beard, I believe. His name — or his alleged 
name, was Smith. 

I cannot be expected, I hope, after all these years, 
to describe exactly the nature of the fault which I 
inadvertantly committed in the playing of this game, 
on that occasion. I remember that I had been losing 
— which was rather unusual with me. Losing money 
at cards is not, I am glad to say, among the vain 
regrets of my life, for, as a matter of fact, my gains 
at Gopher City were, altogether, in excess of my 
losses. On this night, however, I had lost — not heav- 
ily, yet more than was agreeable. 

There is, if my memory is not at fault, a peculiar 
situation in this game where they have on the board 
— 18 — 


GOPHER CITY, 


what they call a “jack-pot.” I cannot now describe 
the situation, nor the nature of the fault I committed 
— except that, without in the least intending to do 
wTong, I offered to “open the pot” without holding 
the cards required by the rules of the game. I had, 
in some unaccountable way, mistaken the value of my 
hand. 

It was the mayor who detected my supposed at- 
tempt at cheating. I presume he really believed I 
was trying to cheat, but he should at least have given 
me a chance to explain. I know not what had aroused 
his suspicions, but his actions were certainly very of- 
fensive from the first. He reached his hand across 
the table, seized my cards, and turned them with their 
faces upward, so that all could see. I did not, at the 
moment, resent the insolent, ungentlemanly action, 
because my own most unfortunate mistake gave some 
color of justice to his conduct. I was ready to ex- 
plain, but he gave me no chance. He struck a small 
hand-bell which was on the table near him, and a 
waiter appeared. 

“Send the other waiters here; and the bar-keeper; 
and the porter. Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the 
other players, speaking in a low, soft, well-modulated 
voice, “I feel that some apology is due you. I should 
not have allowed this black-leg — this pettifogging 
thief — to be of our little party to-night. I did not 


— 19 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


know he was a thief, but I am compelled to admit that 
I have long suspected it. I am not apologizing to 
you, understand, because he is a liar, a rascal, a petti- 
fogger in what he calls his profession. That knowl- 
edge is common property. The boys on the street 
know it; the Greasers down in the valley know it; 
the Chinamen in Hop Alley know it. But I did not 
know he would steal; I only suspected it. Therefore 
please accept my apologies that I did not communicate 
my suspicions to you.” 

There was more, very much more, to the same pur- 
pose. When the employes came, he pointed a finger 
at me and said: 

'‘You fellows, that is a man who calls himself Car- 
michael — Michael Carmichael. Take a good look at 
him. If he darkens these doors again, by day or by 
night, throw him out. Remember what I say. If ever 
he shows himself here and does not go out, you go out. 
Now go back to your work, please.” 

No man can hope to succeed in my noble and ardu- 
ous profession who is not quick to perceive and to 
grasp all the possibilities of difficult and delicate situa- 
tions. In the twinkling of an eye, as it were, I saw 
very clearly that these words must be a prelude to a 
deadly personal encounter. Mr. Smith had carefully 
chosen his words with no other end in view. I per- 
ceived also that, inasmuch as all men went armed 


— 20 — 


GOPHER CITY. 


there, if I should attempt to draw my revolver, the 
whole issue would be resolved into a question of 
quickness in the use of fire-arms. In that case, the 
chances would be about even. 

Also, I saw the money on the table. A certain 
portion of it was now rightfully mine. In all the 
emergencies of life, the one thing not to be despised 
is money. With perfect self-possession, laughing the 
while, I reached out my hand to the little heap of cash 
on the table. Swiftly and accurately I separated it 
into four equal parts, each representing the share of 
the player who had placed it there. 

I do not know why I laugh when I am angry. On 
this occasion there was not much in the words, flow- 
ing so smoothly from the lips of Smith, to excite mirth. 
Nevertheless I was laughing — and I was angry; and 
the laugh was accompanied by a sort of spasmodic 
twitching of the muscles of the face, and there was a 
queer feeling of compression about the neck and jaws. 
In Gopher City the weapon in common use was the 
revolver of heavy caliber; but I had long held to the 
theory that, in close personal encounters, the old- 
fashioned bowie-knife is not to be despised. Hence, 
while in that country, I always carried a knife of the 
kind, in a sheath, inside my coat, near the collar. 
While all men could see I had revolvers, nobody knew 
I had this knife. 


21 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


No one interfered while I divided the money. I 
suppose the players comprehended that my motives, 
as to the money, were honest. I suppose, moreover, 
my laughing anger was mistaken by them for genuine 
mirth — or for an attempt to counterfeit it. I think 
Smith did not understand it, for, though he never 
took his eyes from my face, he was not as well on his 
guard as a man should be who uses that kind of lan- 
guage to a fellow mortal. 

It must not be supposed that I had formed any plan, 
in advance of my act, as to how I should resent all 
these insults. It was only when I thrust my share of 
the money into the inside breast pocket of my coat, 
touching the handle of my knife as I did so, that I 
remembered that weapon. Involuntarily my hand 
closed around the hilt. I drew the knife from the 
sheath, placing my left hand upon the table as I did 
so. Even while the last words of Smith’s offensive 
tirade were trembling upon his lips, I struck. I 
think the blade entered just above his collar-bone. 
He clutched at the weapon, turned half round in his 
chair, and fell, face downward, upon the floor. As 
far as I know, he never spoke again. 

Peace to his ashes! His conduct in this affair was 
most ungentlemanly, and his words were unjust and 
cruel; but if my forgiveness can follow him to the 


GOPHER CITY, 


place where he has gone and do him any good there, 
he may have it with all my heart. 

Now the moment my knife descended, I realized, 
as if by inspiration, that my career in Gopher City 
was at an end. Time, place and circumstances being 
well considered, my act was clearly one of self-defense. 
Yet I knew the fierce, lawless, savage-minded people 
of that town too well to believe they would listen to 
any defense I could make. They would say I had 
tried to cheat the man; that I had been caught in the 
attempt; that I had then slain him in his own house. 
I knew well what my fate would be, if I allowed them 
to get their ruthless hands upon me. 

Having no time to lose, I therefore lost none. I 
pushed the table over and leaped across it, flourish- 
ing my knife as I did so. As a rule people are timid 
about approaching a desperate man armed with a 
knife. The man most to be dreaded, at that moment, 
was the marshal. His office was no sinecure, cer- 
tainly; if he had not been something of a fighter he 
could not have held his place twenty-four hours. It 
was well for me I did not forget his presence at that 
moment. When he reached out his hand, as I leaped 
forward and cleared the table and the body of my 
fallen foe, and caught my coat where it hung loosely 
under my arm, I was not unprepared. I thrust my 
knife through his arm near the shoulder, and he sud- 


— 23 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 

denly let go. My first rush carried me beyond the 
group of waiters, who perhaps were not armed. I 
then faced about, changed my knife from my right 
hand to my left, and drew my revolver. I was wise 
enough not to keep my back to the crowd in my at- 
tempt to gain the street. I had little hope of leaving 
the place alive, and but for that fortunate knife thrust 
through the marshal’s arm, I am sure I should have 
been murdered then and there. Even as I turned, I 
saw the officer’s left hand go toward his belt, and 
there was the glint of polished metal as the weapon 
came from its holster. 

If I were disposed to boast of such vain and 
worldly matters, I might here take some credit for 
coolness, nerve, presence of mind, and skill in the use 
of firearms. I could have shot the marshal, I am 
sure, or one of the others; but that would have been 
of small service to me under the circumstances. I 
raised my pistol and fired at the chandelier. The 
bullet struck the bronze stem of it near the place where 
the iron hook from the ceiling passed through it. The 
stem broke like glass, and the twelve kerosene lamps 
came down with a crash to the floor. I took advan- 
tage of the momentary darkness which followed and 
gained the street. Then I saw a great light inside the 
building, and I heard voices shouting, ‘‘Fire!” 

I was not slow to perceive that the burning of that 
— 24 — 


GOPHER CITY. 


sink of iniquity might prove a blessing to me. It 
would be natural for those inside to try to extinguish 
the fire, and so their attention would be diverted from 
me for some time. The stairway leading to my rooms 
was only a few feet away from the door by which 
I had gained the street. I went at once to my bed- 
room. I took my ready money — about twenty-five 
hundred dollars — and thrust it into my pockets. I 
filled my belt with cartridges, strapped two blankets 
together, took my mackintosh, and hurried out into 
the hall. A back stair led to a yard in the rear of the 
premises ; and the yard had a gate which opened upon 
an alley. As I went down this stairway I heard a 
great noise of shouting, a sound of breaking glass, 
and other noises incident to fires. Smoke was com- 
ing up through the crevices in the flooring. The place 
was certainly doomed, and with it the entire block of 
buildings where it stood. I felt encouraged, because 
I believed the conflagration would give all the people 
ample employment, for a few hours, at least. 

At one end of the alley were half a dozen small 
stables, and in one of them my horse was hitched. As I 
made my way in that direction I met many people 
running down the alley toward the fire; but I had 
nothing to fear from them, since they could not pos- 
sibly know what had happened. But when I got to 
the stable I was astonished to find my horse ready. 


— 25 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


saddled and bridled, and a man, mounted upon an- 
other horse, holding the reins. By the light of the 
moon I recognized this man. It was Gilbert; of him 
I shall have more to say presently. My first impulse 
was to shoot him, for, without my horse, I could not 
hope to escape; but, before I could move or speak, he 
said: 

“Mount, Mr. Carmichael — mount and get out of 
this, if you value your neck. No, don’t stop to ask 
questions. If you save your neck this night, I will 
explain; if you do not, you will not need an explana- 
tion. Mount, my son, mount and ride, if you would 
live to open another jack-pot.” 

Under other circumstances, I might have resented 
this rather insolent speech, but this was no time to 
make new enemies. I was in the saddle before he had 
finished. 

“If you do not know where to go, or how to get 
there, you had better let me conduct this excursion,” 
he said. 

I made no reply, but followed him through the alley 
into the street. The roadway was empty, but the 
walks on either side were thronged with people. As 
we turned to ride up the street a bright light broke 
out above the block. A cloud of smoke rolled over the 
roofs of the buildings, and sparks and blazing frag- 
ments of shingles began to fall. Here and there, all 
— 26 — 


GOPHER CITY. 


about the town, roofs of houses stood out distinctly in 
the blood-red light of the conflagration. It was clear 
to me, the people of Gopher City would have plenty 
of occupation for their minds and hands for some 
time. In fact, as I have since learned, three whole 
blocks of that modern Sodom were laid in ashes that 
morning, including, of course, the Rock Crystal 
saloon. 

I was about to put spurs to my horse, when my 
companion said: 

'‘Gently, gently. The good people might begin to 
wonder why a couple of horsemen ride, at break-neck 
speed, from a sight so attractive to most men as a 
fire. Wait. It would surely be a pity to have to 
hurt any more of your fellow citizens this morning. 
We will ride faster by and by.” 

We rode at a walk, taking the most unfrequented 
streets, until we reached the eastern limit of the town. 
Gopher City is in a sort of depression, rimmed by low 
prairie hills. From the top of the rim the ground 
stretches away, in gentle undulations, to the horizon. 
From the place where we reached this ridge the trail 
leads off to the southeast. We halted and looked 
back. The fire was raging like a volcano. The rising 
wind swept the smoke away to the north. Down in 
the streets it was as light as day. The waters of the 
little river which flows through the town looked like 


— 27 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


blood; the sky, the houses, the hills beyond, were all 
tinged with the same crimson hue. I wish I could 
erase that awful picture from the tablets of my mem- 
ory. All at once, as we sat there, looking down upon 
that scene of ruin, my companion said: 

“Look!” 

And he pointed with his hand toward a part of the 
town which was at least a quarter of a mile south of 
the place where the fire raged. I looked and saw, 
beyond the bridge which spans the river near the 
southern edge of the city, a large livery stable. Hos- 
tlers were leading horses from this stable, and, as soon 
as a horse was led out, one of a group of men near 
the door would mount it. I observed also that, here 
and there, in the streets, mounted men, singly or in 
groups, were riding toward the stable. 

“Do you understand?” said my companion. 

I understood: The “vigilantes” were gathering. 
This organization, called into being by the need of 
better protection of life and property than the law 
could give, was composed of some of the best men 
of the community. Among its members were veteran 
frontiersmen and old soldiers of both armies of the 
Civil war. There were men who had scouted for Cus- 
ter, men who had ridden with Sheridan, and Shelby, 
and Morgan. Their commander was a grim old vet- 
eran who had been colonel of a cavalry regiment in 
— 28 — 


GOPHER CITY. 


the great war. Their organization was perfect and so 
was their discipline. I had overestimated the power 
of the fire as a demoralizing agent. These men had 
seen a fire or two already. 

^The Vigilance Committee/’ I gasped. 

‘‘Exactly so. Does it occur to you that it is time to 
be jogging?” 

“For me, yes. But as you had no hand in this 
business, why get yourself into trouble?” 

“We will speak of that some other time.” 

At that moment a column of twenty men, as nearly 
as we could guess their number, rode across the bridge 
and turned into one of the streets which led in our 
direction. They could be at no loss to know the way 
we had taken, for half of the people we had met on 
the streets knew me well. We looked in the direction 
of the trail. Not a tree or bush, in all the wide plain, 
to offer even a moment’s concealment. Day was even 
then beginning to break, and therefore we must soon 
be in plain view of those who were after us. It seemed 
that the issue must resolve itself into one of speed and 
endurance. We had good horses, which was a point 
in our favor, since at least half of our pursuers were 
riding common livery hacks. Yet some of the vig- 
ilantes rode their own horses; and some of them were 
sure to be well mounted. We might assume that, of 
ten of their best animals, five would be as good as 


— 29 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


ours and one or two even better. As they were all 
armed with long-range, breech-loading rifles, while 
we had only revolvers, they might easily shoot us 
down, keeping, at the same time, safely out of range 
of our weapons. The outlook was not cheerful. 

The trail, as I have said, stretched away to the 
southeast. I started in that direction, but my friend 
said: 

“Not that way, Mr. Carmichael. We must make 
for the Kingdom.” 

We turned and rode northeast. There was no trail. 
The prairie had been burned over, some months be- 
fore, and now it was covered with young grass, crisp 
and short. 

“Not too fast,” said Gilbert. “Save your horse as 
much as you can. It is twenty miles to the Kingdom.” 


— 30 — 


MAKING FOR THE KINGDOM, 


CHAPTER II. 

MAKING FOR THE KINGDOM. 

What was the “Kingdom?” Who was Gilbert? 
I will try to answer these questions in the order in 
which I have stated them. 

The region known to us as “The Kingdom,” is one 
of the strangest places on the globe, I think. Twenty 
miles to the northeast of Gopher City there rises above 
the level of the surrounding country what seems, as 
viewed from the plain, a long, irregular wall of yellow 
mud. It appears to be about two hundred feet high 
and extends from northwest to southeast for several 
hundred miles. The first sight of it suggests to the 
beholder a tremendous earthwork thrown up by some 
race of giants in some prehistoric age. The face of 
it is irregular, with curves and projections, which may 
have been bays and promontories of an ancient sea 
coast. The outer slopes are strangely scarred and 
wrinkled, where the rains have trenched them. Some 
of these clay cliffs, as seen from the prairie, have 
strange fantastic shapes, suggestive of the pictures of 
extinct marine monsters one sees in books on ^geol- 
ogy. It is as if some old-world reptiles had crawled out 
of the ocean, now represented by the prairie, and had 


— 31 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 

curled themselves up on the shore to die. The winds 
and rains have so worn the hill-sides as to carve out, 
upon the side and summits, protuberances which might 
be fins, legs, claws and enormous jaws. Similar form- 
ations may be observed in the clay bluffs along the 
Missouri river in Northwest Missouri. Behind this 
outer wall there is a region hard to describe. Imagine 
that, one day, while the earth was yet soft from 
the great deluge, some titanic infant attempted a mud- 
pie ; that he first piled up on the plain a mass of yellow 
mud two hundred miles long, seventy miles wide, and 
two hundred feet high; that, before leaving it to dry 
in the sun, he took a knife and slashed it across and 
across, in every possible direction, from top to bottom 
— the knife being about two hundred yards thick at 
the edge and half a mile across at the back. Whoever 
can picture a mud pie of that size, so slashed across 
in every direction, will have some idea of what I may 
call the ground plan of the region known as "‘The 
Kingdom.” The knife had generally spared the outer 
rim of the pie, so that it was not cut through in more 
than half a dozen places throughout its entire length. 
But the network of gullies and streams inside would 
form a maze compared with which the famous laby- 
rinth of King Minos must have been a very simple 
affair. Each clay hill is so like all the other hills or 
mounds, each gully is so like all other gullies, each 
-32 — 


MAKING FOR THE KINGDOM, 


yellow-hued, sluggish stream which meanders through 
it, is so like all the others, that whosoever enters the 
region without a guide or without a compass may 
congratulate himself if he ever gets out alive. From 
the summit of one of its cliffs the land, as far as the 
eye can see, appears to be a vast table-land, crossed 
by innumerable ditches. Not a single hill rises above 
the general level to serve as a landmark to the be- 
wildered traveler. There is, however, a general dip of 
the whole region toward the southwest, for several 
streams — two at least — flow through it in that direc- 
tion. 

Why is it called ‘‘The Kingdom?” Because, al- 
though the Federal and Territorial governments have 
jurisdiction over it, their authority is merely nominal. 
It is the ideal hiding place in all creation, a haven of 
refuge for all sorts of fugitives from justice. Horse 
thieves, counterfeiters, murderers and escaped convicts 
flee to it when the surrounding country gets too hot 
for them. Occasionally, as in my case, it might be- 
come a shelter for wronged, hunted, persecuted vic- 
tims of circumstance, but for the most part its inmates 
were bad men. Sheriffs and United States marshals 
never visited it except in such numbers as to defeat, 
usually, the purpose for which they went. Being thus 
a country whose people were beyond the pale of gov- 
ernment, it was said to be a kingdom by itself — whence, 
— 33 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


in time, it was called ‘The Kingdom.” The reader 
will readily understand why we were so anxious to 
reach this place. 

Now, as to Gilbert. About a week before the unfor- 
tunate affair I have described, a stranger appeared 
among the frequenters of the Rock Crystal saloon. 
Certainly, strangers were not rare in Gopher City, at 
that time, but this man attracted attention by certain 
peculiarities of manner. For instance, he drank noth- 
ing but very light beverages, and he partook of them 
sparingly. He did not patronize the card tables at all, 
but confined himself to billiards when he wished to 
amuse himself. He did not seem to know anybody, 
nor did he appear at all anxious to enjoy the friend- 
ship and society of the patrons of the place. Inas- 
much as we, within certain decorous limits, were a 
sociable people, this conduct was considered strange 
and was the subject of much quiet discussion. 

For opinions differed. Some held that he was a 
professional gambler, “sizing up the crowd,” “laying 
for something big.” The advocates of this doctrine 
called attention to the superior quality of the strang- 
er’s clothes, the whiteness of his hands, and his “tired” 
manner. They held that these characteristics, in the 
absence of proof to the contrary, created an over- 
whelming presumption in favor of the truth of their 
contention. Yet there were some who thought he 
— 34 — 


MAKING FOR THE KINGDOM. 


might be a doctor, or dentist, or barber, studying 
Gopher City, with a view to coming there to live. 
There were others who declared he must be a preacher 
or temperance lecturer. They argued that as Gopher 
City was what the missionaries call a “great destitute 
field, it was only natural to expect the advent of a 
preacher at any moment. As there was nothing to 
be urged in favor of this theory, except the personal 
appearance of the man, and as the advocates of the 
gambling theory had exactly the same argument on 
their side, the missionary contention had to be aban- 
doned at last, even by its most confident supporters. 

It was not easy to guess the man’s age. He might 
be anywhere between thirty and forty-five. He wore 
no beard, not even a moustache. He had black hair, 
and large gray eyes, a large mouth, a long nose, and 
beautiful teeth. His voice was soft, and his smile was 
remarkably sweet and winning. His hands were long 
and white, with long, tapering fingers. He had the 
appearance of a man who had inherited consumption. 

He was in the room at the time of my encounter 
with Smith. I made a mental note, that evening, of 
the fact that he was, with one exception, the best 
dressed man in the place. I need not name the excep- 
tion. He wore, as I well remember, a black frock 
coat, black pantaloons and white waistcoat. 

This was the noted John R. Gilbert. My attention 
— 35 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


had early been drawn to him by an incident which I 
might have forgotten, had not subsequent events given 
me good cause to remember it. The first time he ap- 
peared at the Rock Crystal, we met, face to face, near 
the entrance. I thought he was about to accost me. 
He stared at me with a surprised look — the look of a 
man who unexpectedly meets an old acquaintance. 
Either because he saw no answering look of recog- 
tion on my face, or because he discovered his mistake, 
he turned away without speaking. I observed that he 
watched me closely all that evening. Once he came 
to the table where I was playing, and asked permis- 
sion to watch the game. I do not think he noticed 
much what was going on ; but I know he stared at me 
most of the time. Next day I discovered he had been 
questioning the janitor of the building. He wished 
to know how long I had been in Gopher City, and he 
seemed much surprised to learn that I had been there 
more than two years. The janitor heard him mut- 
ter to himself, “Well — ^well — well!” Often after that 
first evening I caught him staring at me, but he never 
spoke to me. Sometimes he would come into the 
court room, and he always appeared to watch the 
cases in which I was concerned with great interest. 
Several times I discovered that he was listening to 
conversations in which I was engaged; but this was 
not, of itself, surprising, because I have always been 


— 36 — 


MAKING FOR THE KINGDOM. 

considered a good talker. I wish to say here, all 
reports to the contrary notwithstanding, that the first 
time he ever spoke to me was there in the alley, on the 
night of the burning of the Rock Crystal saloon. That 
was the beginning of my acquaintance with John Rus- 
sell Gilbert. The acquaintance had an unfavorable be- 
ginning, and, but for the mercy of God, would have 
had an ending even more sinister. 

« 4: H: 4: 

The moonlight paled before the increasing light of 
the dawn as we swiftly and steadily galloped over the 
plain. Long before the sun rose, the landscape was as 
clearly visible as it would be at noon. Not a cloud was 
in the sky. Adeadow larks were singing all about us; 
the air was musical with the soft, cooing noise made by 
the prairie chickens. Millions of flowers, prairie pinks, 
wild strawberry blooms, violets — and thousands of 
others — dotted the rolling green. Around the hori- 
zon, the inevitable thin, blue haze of the prairie land- 
scape in summer — like the last stroke of the master’s 
brush — added the finishing touch to the wonderful 
picture which, once seen, is never forgotten. Yes, 
it was very, very lovely; but I could not forget that the 
tigerish hearts of my enemies could not be charmed 
by the beauty of this fair morning world. Th^ir cruel 
purpose could not be softened by the fragrant summer 
blossoms or the perfumed south wind pouring in 
— 37 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


fragrant torrents across this wide free plain. They 
were cold, hard, commonplace men, who could not 
be expected to possess a tithe of my own sus- 
ceptibility to such influences. The beautiful day 
now breaking over the world might be the last of 
earthly days for me. I might hope to see the sun 
rise, but heaven only could know if I should see it set. 
The thought was full of bitterness. 

Often, as the light increased, we looked back tow- 
ard the place where we had left the road. We had 
some hope that, when our enemies reached that point, 
there would not be light enough to enable them to 
discover where we left the beaten track, in which case 
they might go along the highway far enough to give 
us a safe start. Unfortunately, they knew all about 
the Kingdom, and guessed from the start, I suppose, 
that we would try to go there. They must therefore 
have been on the lookout for our trail. When they 
found it, it was not hard for those experienced plains- 
men to follow it through the young grass. Thus they 
had the advantage of knowing our movements from 
the start, while we, for a time, were in doubt as to 
theirs. The prairie was of the kind usually described 
as rolling. That is to say, there was a series of hills 
of which the slopes were long while the elevations 
were not great. Thus it might happen that when we 
were at the top of one swell, our pursuers might be 


— 38 — 


MAKING FOR THE KINGDOM. 


at the bottom of another, and so be invisible to us. 
We dared not lose the time necessary to make sure 
they were upon our track. 

The sun rose almost in our faces. As the great 
flood of golden light deluged the world, turning the 
dew-drops into diamonds, an involuntary exclamation 
of pleasure broke from my lips in spite of the care 
which lay heavy upon my heart. I am keenly sus- 
ceptible to religious influences and am therefore deeply 
poetical by nature. I spoke of the beauty of the scene. 
Gilbert did not immediately reply, but turned in his 
saddle and looked back along the way we had come. 
We were not far from the summit of one of the ridges 
I have described. When we reached its highest point 
Gilbert exclaimed: 

‘‘Hold upr 

I halted and looked back. Away in the southwest 
a dark column of smoke rose straight toward the sky, 
marking the scene of the morning’s tragedy — grimly 
suggestive of the reasons why we were abroad on that 
fairest of June mornings. My companion stretched 
out one long arm in the direction of the smoke, and 
said: 

“You appear to have a fine eye for scenic effects. 
Look now, at the top of that long, green hill~there, 
right in line with the smoke. It seems to me there :s 
something which should quicken a poet’s pulse.” 

— 39 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


He was exactly the kind of man, as I was to learn, 
who was sure to be frivolous in the use of words when 
he had most cause to be serious. I looked where 
he pointed, and saw that our foes were coming across 
that ridge in a long, irregular procession, the first 
seven or eight being well together, the rest straggling 
along, in groups of two or three, behind the leaders. 

We turned and resumed our flight, my companion 
being apparently as unconcerned as if he were merely 
out for the morning air. From the summit of the next 
ridge I saw, beneath the rim of the rising sun, a dark 
blue line, which extended along the horizon from 
northeast to southeast. 

“The Kingdom,” exclaimed Gilbert. “We are in 
sight of the promised land!” Then, after a moment’s 
pause, he added, “But so was Moses.” 

The allusion to Moses may have been appropriate, 
under the circumstances, but I am not sure that it was 
in good taste, or that it was uttered in the most rever- 
ent spirit. 

Incredible as it may appear, he, then and there, 
riding at a gallop, with bloodthirsty enemies hot upon 
his trail, began to question me as to my religious pre- 
dilections, declaring his own preference for the Regu- 
lar Baptists, remarking that while not, as yet, called 
effectually, he had no doubt of his election. Seeing, I 
suppose, that I was not, at that time, deeply interested 


— 40 — 


MAKING FOR THE KINGDOM, 

in the issues between Calvinism and Arminianism, he 
changed the topic and began to discuss our present 
chances as coolly as if he were not at all interested in 
the outcome. 

‘‘It is a simple matter of mental arithmetic,” he 
said. “Allow so much for the start we have, so much 
for our present rate of speed and theirs, and you get 
exactly how much they will have to gain without kill- 
ing their horses. Allow for the distance we have to 
travel, and the distance they have to travel, to gain the 
“Kingdom,” and you have our chances, to the fraction 
of a cent.” 

I looked back as well as I could without checking 
my horse. The pursuers were crossing another ridge. 
Evidently some of their horses were falling behind, 
but five or six of them were well together in front. 

“The fraction must be a small one,” I said despond- 
ently, “which represents the value of our lives.” 

Gilbert took a more cheerful view. He proceeded 
to prove, by I know not what process of reasoning, 
that we must gain the pass to the Kingdom, just four 
hundred yards in advance of our enemies. When I 
called his attention to the fact that his calculations 
were based upon several assumptions none of which 
might be true, he replied that he was not without per- 
sonal experience of such matters, having more than 
once been in the position of hunter or hunted. His 
— 41 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


conclusions were very comforting, and I told him so. 

“They would be highly comforting,” he said, “but 
for one unfortunate circumstance. Some of those fel- 
lows back yonder carry guns sighted to kill at one 
thousand yards.” 

“Great Scott!” I exclaimed. “What shall we do?” 

“ 'Escape for thy life,’ ” he said; “ ‘look not behind 
thee, neither stay thou in all the plain; escape to the 
mountain, lest thou be consumed!’ On second 
thought, you may look behind you, but all the rest 
of that scripture applies strictly.” 

We rode on for a long time in silence. At last we 
could no longer doubt that our enemies were gaining. 
That is to say, about five of them had managed to 
lessen the distance between us very greatly. Of these, 
one soon gave up the chase — of which fact we had 
singular, and, to me, disagreeable, proof. I shall 
never forget the incident. As I looked at a small ant 
hill about forty yards ahead of me, a small puff of dust 
rose from it and a few seconds later I heard the report 
of a gun from the direction of our enemies. 

“That must be a Springfield rifle,” said Gilbert, 
“warranted to kill — fortunately not warranted to hit — 
at one thousand yards. Not a bad shot, however, as 
that bullet must have passed directly over your head; 
but it means that one more man finds himself out of 
the race.” 


— 42 — 


MAKING FOR THE KINGDOM. 


He was right, for, when I looked back, I saw that 
one of the leaders had stopped. While I looked there 
was a puff of smoke and, a second later, another re- 
port. Then and there I seemed to hear a voice say- 
ing, in thunder tones, “Except ye repent, ye shall all 
likewise perish!” I date the beginning of the work of 
grace in me from that moment. 

Gilbert’s arithmetic was certainly very good. If 
his heart had been as sound as his mathematics, it 
would have been better for him and for others. When 
•we were within one hundred yards of the bluffs, 
two of our foes were not more than four hundred 
yards behind us. The great yellow cliffs were right 
before us, their wrinkled fronts covered with stiff, wiry 
grass which looked like coarse gray hair. We could 
see the place where the yellow waters of Saffron creek 
found their way to the plain. The gap was not visible, 
because it does not open at right angles with the face 
of the bluff, the stream flowing almost parallel with 
the outer face of the cliffs after it passes through to 
the plain. When the two men nearest us perceived 
that we must beat them to the pass, they opened fire 
with the repeating rifles they carried. Although four 
hundred yards might be considered long range for 
their guns, especially as they hardly checked the speed 
of their horses, we were in considerable danger. I 
could see where some of the bullets struck the hill 


— 43 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


before us and I thought the range was fairly good. 
We leaned forward over our horses’ necks, to make 
ourselves as small as possible, and rode as fast as our 
tired horses could go. Owing to the angle at which 
the pass opened, we should be entirely safe from bul- 
lets the moment we entered it. 

Here a thing happened which goes to show that 
the calculations of men, however carefully made be- 
forehand, are apt to become complicated with acci- 
dents which no human wisdom can foresee. A man, 
a member of the Vigilantes, had been on guard at this 
pass for several days, to capture some notorious of- 
fender who was expected to come down from the 
‘‘Kingdom.” I suppose he heard the firing, discov- 
ered that his friends were after us, and determined to 
help them. He must have known that two men in 
desperate flight for their lives could not easily be 
stopped by one man, but I suppose he counted a little 
on the surprise, and a little on what is called “the 
drop.” Partly in order to escape the bullets of his 
friends, and partly for the purpose of surprising us, 
he had posted himself just within the mouth of the 
pass. There the track was about ten feet wide, with 
the inner wall of the cliff on one side and the creek 
on the other. He placed himself directly across the 
road, with his horse’s head toward the stream, so that 
his right hand, armed with a revolver, was on the 


— 44 — 


MAKING FOR THE KINGDOM, 


side of our approach. It would have been better gen- 
eralship, on his part, if he had retired a little further 
up the gorge; for, coming, as we did, at full speed 
around the angle of the cliff, we could not have 
avoided a collision with him, if we had tried. I was a 
little ahead of Gilbert. The man raised his hand, 
there was a flash, and I felt the sting of powder on my 
face. A moment later, I was lying on the ground, 
my mouth full of dirt. Gilbert’s horse was struggling 
to its feet, while my own was lying, with his neck 
doubled under him, at the edge of the water, fifteen 
feet below. I was dazed, bruised, terribly shaken, but, 
thank heaven, not seriously hurt. Gilbert did not ap- 
pear to be hurt at all. Of the three horses mine was 
killed, the stranger’s was disabled and could not rise, 
but Gilbert’s was uninjured. My companion helped 
me to my feet and then bent over the vigilant, where 
he lay with one leg under his horse, and removed 
his cartridge belt, and the remaining pistol. He also 
picked up the revolver which the fellow had dropped, 
and tossed both weapons into the creek. There was 
a repeating rifle slung to the stranger’s saddle. Gil- 
bert kept the rifle. By this time I had mounted Gil- 
bert’s horse, as he bade me. He then came and 
caught hold of the stirrup leather, crying: 

*'Ride! Make for the next turn in the gully!” 


— 45 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


It was time, for I could hear the clatter of hoofs as 
our pursuers rode up to the mouth of the pass. 

It seemed rather inhuman to leave that poor man 
there without trying to help him, as he begged us to do, 
but we had no time to waste. Yet even this may have 
been providential, for the two ruffians who. had been 
shooting at us rode over him, in their headlong eager- 
ness. We saw the catastrophe from the safe shelter of 
the turn of the ravine. At first there was such a cloud 
of dust we could not make out exactly what had hap- 
pened. Evidently both horsemen were down, but we 
could not tell whether either of them was hurt. I 
saw all four feet of one horse in the air; as for the 
other, he may have followed mine to the river, with 
his rider along with him. At least, there could not be 
much danger from either of them now, though we did 
not choose to wait longer. Gilbert took the horse by 
the bridle, and started up one of the lateral ravines. 
The only comment he saw proper to make was to 
quote something which ran, as well as I remember, 
like this: 

“It seems a ahame,” the walrus said, 

“To play them such a trick. 

After we’ve brought them out so far 
And made them trot so quick!” 


— 46 — 


GILBERTS HISTORY, 


CHAPTER III. 
gilbert’s history. 

It was fortunate for us that Gilbert, having some 
previous knowledge of the place, had provided him- 
self with a pocket compass, otherwise we must, sooner 
or later, have become food for coyotes in that hideous 
wilderness. As it was, we were not very well equipped 
for the journey of seventy-five miles to the other side. 
My blankets were with my horse at the mouth of the 
pass, but Gilbert gave me one of the two he had 
brought with him. We had nothing else to carry ex- 
cept our arms and ammunition. As to provisions we 
were absolutely destitute. We might hope to kill a 
rabbit now and then, or even a quail or prairie 
chicken, and as Gilbert had some matches, we could 
cook what we killed, if we could obtain any fuel; what- 
ever we cooked must be eaten without salt. 

It was yet early in the forenoon when we resumed 
our journey. In a little hollow where there was water 
and grass we unsaddled the horse and left him, be- 
cause he would be an encumbrance rather than a help 
on the road we had to travel. Setting our course by 
compass, we found that our line of march would take 
us directly up a steep bluff before us. The top of the 
— 47 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


hill was, I think, about one hundred and fifty feet 
higher than the bottom. Up there the ground was 
level, covered with the short, wiry grass I have men- 
tioned. It was very good walking, but at the far side 
of the little plateau the face of the hill was as steep 
as the wall of a house. We made a circuit of the sum- 
mit, to find that the only place we could descend was 
the place where we came up. We had to go around 
the hill by means of the encircling ravines. I describe 
this first experience in order to give some idea of the 
difficulties of this most wretched journey. 

I suppose we made about ten miles of actual pro- 
gress that day, although we must have walked, al- 
together, more than twice that distance. That after- 
noon Gilbert shot a rabbit and a prairie hen. He was 
certainly remarkably skillful in the use of fire-arms, 
for, although our weapons were not adapted to the 
killing of small game, I never saw him miss a shot in 
the whole course of the journey. 

About the middle of the afternoon there were signs 
of a change in the weather. The breeze had died away 
and the heat was oppressive. At four o’clock a great 
cloud appeared in the West and we heard, from time 
to time, a far-off, sullen growl of thunder. We were 
descending into a little, narrow valley at the bottom of 
which there was a small stream fringed with bushes 
and stunted trees. Half way to the bottom of the 


— 48 — 


GILBERTS HISTORY. 


slope we were surprised to come upon a dim foot- 
path, which led down to the stream. It came from 
our left, along a sort of natural terrace on the side 
of the hill. We had reached it just at the place where 
it turned down toward the creek. 

*‘It has not been used lately,’’ I said, as we stood 
and examined it. 

*‘No,” said my companion, “let us hope not. Let 
us hope that the people who made it are now making 
tracks in some other place. I am a sociable man 
myself, but I do not believe the fellows who made 
this road would be desirable company, under any cir- 
cumstances. Let us explore a little.” 

We followed the path to the left and had not to go 
far to find the end of it. It terminated at a small level 
place, something like what miners call a “dump.” The 
clay of this platform was trodden hard and there were 
ashes on it, and bits or charred wood, where a fire 
had been. The side of the hill was here perpendicular, 
and in the face of it was an excavation which, in form 
and size, looked like the door of a house. To the 
right of this was another opening, evidently intended 
for a window. The door had no shutter, the window 
no sash. Gilbert went to the window and looked in. 

“Nobody at home,” he said, “let us enter.” 

A room about twelve feet square had been neatly 
excavated in the side of the hill. We found nothing 


— 49 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


in the place except a small heap of firewood and an 
old bucket fallen to pieces. The room was dry and 
must have afforded a very good shelter to the people 
who made it. As we had no way to bring water from 
the stream we had to go there to dress our game. We 
cooked it on the platform before the door, using the 
wood we found inside. We had the rabbit for sup- 
per, but we cooked the prairie hen at the same time, 
partly to save fuel and partly to keep it from spoiling. 
The rabbit was dry and tough, and we had no salt, 
but we made a very good meal, being both tired and 
hungry. 

All this time the clouds in the West had been stead- 
ily climbing toward the zenith. While we were eating 
our supper we heard a sound like the trampling of 
innumerable horses coming on at a swift gallop. Then 
a large hailstone struck the slope above us and came 
bounding into the fire. This was a hint not to be dis- 
regarded, and we immediately took shelter in the ex- 
cavation. A moment later the ground was white, the 
fire was beaten out, while hailstones poured along the 
side of the hill like grain down the chute of an ele- 
vator. Then came a tremendous storm of rain, driven 
in horizontal sheets before a hurricane of wind from 
the southwest. It was well for us that our shelter was 
in the eastern face of the hill, otherwise the place must 
have been deluged with water through the door and 


— 60 — 



ENTERING THE KINGDOM 


Page 45 









GILBERTS HISTORY. 


window; as it was, not a drop reached us. The wind 
soon ceased to blow, but the lightning blazed, the 
thunder boomed, and the rain fell in torrents until far 
into the night. Although the storm began at least an 
hour and a half before sunset, it soon grew dark in our 
cave. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could, 
spreading our blankets on the floor and using our 
coats for pillows. 

While the wind blew hard it was not possible to con- 
verse, so great was the uproar, but as soon as it ceased 
my companion addressed himself to the task of enter- 
taining me — according to his peculiar ideas of enter- 
tainment. With the exception of Mr. Richard Swiv- 
eler, I have never heard of any man who could quote 
as many odds and ends of poetry as Gilbert. But 
Swiveler, be it remembered, was a character in a novel, 
a figment of a novelist’s imagination, and, so far as I 
remember, nothing he ever said, or sung, or quoted 
had the diabolical appositeness, so to speak, that char- 
acterized Gilbert’s efforts in the same direction. 

He began the evening’s entertainment by singing 
the mournful sea ballad, 'The Bay of Biscay, O!” 
Then he quoted some lines about a lost lamb: 

“Storm upon the mountain, 

Rainy torrents beating, 

And the little snow-white lamb, bleating, ever bleating.’" 

And he recited it well, as far as that goes. He ap- 
— 61 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 

peared think so, at least, for he said, when he had 
finished : 

“I say, Michael — I may call you Michael? That is 
fine, is it not, that little poem? And it seems to fit our 
case. Snorting old storm — thunder and lightning — 
Tainy torrents beating’ — two lost lambs astray in the 
mountains — literally and figuratively astray — ^not ex- 
actly snow-white, of course, but not the less in need 
of a shepherd, eh? By the way, are you sleepy?” 

“No,” I said, “I feel as if I should never sleep 
again.” 

“I dare say. ‘Macbeth doth murder’ — and so on. 
Is this your first man?” 

“I do not understand you,” I said. 

“I ask if this is the first time you ever carved a 
gentleman over the clavicle with a bowie knife. Have 
you ever before to-day, in that or in any other way, 
sent a fellow citizen to try the realities of the unseen 
world — as we say at prayer meeting?” 

“No, no, no!” I said. “Never before, so help me, 
and I hope with all my soul it may never happen to 
me again.” 

“I bet that you do. Do you know, I have never seen 
a man who did not feel that way, under similar cir- 
cumstances. It is always that way with the first man 
— almost as bad with the second. I remember — but 


— 52 — 


GILBERTS HISTORY. 


never mind — there was something I wanted to ask 
you — O yes. Do you believe in a personal devil?” 

‘‘I do not know,” I groaned. “I have heard his 
existence denied.” 

“So have I,” he said. 

Then he began to relate a horrible story which he 
said he had got from a celebrated evangelist, who had 
got it from the man who saw it. It was the most hor- 
rible story I ever heard, with the devil as a principal 
character. It lost nothing from his manner of telling 
it. He concluded by saying, that before he had heard 
this tale he had been a doubter of Satan’s personality, 
but that story had made him a firm believer. 

I made a desperate effort to change the subject, by 
congratulating him upon his marksmanship as exhib- 
ited that day in the killing of the rabbit and prairie 
hen. It was a long time before he made any reply — 
so long that I began to hope he had fallen asleep. At 
last he said: 

“In Byron’s poem, when somebody congratulated 
Mazeppa upon his horsemanship, he said: 

* ill betide, 

The school in which I learned to ride.’ 

Though I never could understand how he learned to 
ride by being tied to the back of a broncho, it would 
have been worth something if he had learned how to 
fall off, under the circumstances — worth bragging 


— 63 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


about, anyhow. Certainly he married a Tartar prin- 
cess — married a whole ranchful of mustangs, you 
might say, and so had to learn to ride or get no good 
of his wife’s property. Anyway, I will parody his 
speech and say, “I’ll betide the school wherein I 
learned to shoot.” 

Then he told me the story of his life — or what pur- 
ported to be the story of his life, for, as will be seen, 
he must have omitted some details concerning himself 
and his family. He was born in North Missouri. His 
parents had come into that state from Kentucky. 
They were religious people — Baptists, of the straight- 
est Calvanistic tenets, cleanly in life, courteous of man- 
ner, rigidly honest in all dealings with their neighbors. 
The}^had given their son the best educational advan- 
tages the country afforded at the time. The father 
died just before the breaking out of the Civil war, 
leaving his estate to the mother. 

The sympathies of the Gilberts were with the 
South, when the troubles began. The young man 
wished to join the army, but was persuaded to remain 
at home and help his mother in the management of 
the farm. The local conditions, in the vicinity of his 
home, were certainly far from agreeable to people of 
his political views; yet, although he had taken no 
pains to conceal his sentiments, he was never molested 
in any way, until late in the summer of the second 
— 54 — 


GILBERT’S HISTORY. 


year of the great struggle. About that time one of 
their neighbors, a soldier in General Price’s army, re- 
turned home secretly, on recruiting service. This 
man was reasonably cautious while in the neighbor- 
hood, visiting his friends, or the friends of his cause, 
only in the night. Nevertheless his mission was full 
of peril, for the people in that county were almost 
evenly divided on the question of secession; party 
spirit ran high, and the passions of both factions were 
becoming more and more inflamed by mutual injuries 
and insults. It may well be supposed that there was 
no lack of people in that part of the country who 
would have been glad to turn this man over to the 
provost marshal. I give the rest of the story in Gil- 
bert’s own words, as I recall them: 

“On our place was a renter named Langly. This 
man had been a special favorite of my father, heaven 
knows why. My father furnished him teams and farm- 
ing implements, loaned him money to buy provisions 
for his family, helped him to clothe his children — in 
fact, he had helped him to such effect that, when the 
war began, Langly had quite a start in the world. 

“He wore what the boys used to call a ‘billy-goat’ 
beard. That is to say, he allowed the hair to grow 
on his neck and under his chin, but not on his- face. 
You have seen pictures of the sun-god of the Aztecs, 
I suppose — a head with rays of light standing out all 


— 55 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


around it, like ‘quills upon the fretful porcupine?’ 
Langly, with his stiff, red hair standing up from his 
forehead and about his temples, his coarse beard 
streaming out from around his jaws and under his 
chin, was not unlike that ancient Mexican deity in 
appearance. He was ‘loyal.’ I have never heard any 
man use the word ‘loyal’ in such a mouth-filling, soul- 
satisfying way as Langly, and I used to hear it often 
in those days. He had two sons and an only daughter. 
The sons were in the militia at Richmond, and the 
daughter was at home. She weighed about two hun- 
dred pounds, rather more than less. She had a very 
strong, shrill, high-keyed voice, and whenever she 
passed our house she used to stop in the road before 
the gate and sing: 

‘The Union forever, 

Hurrah boys, hurrah! 

Down with the traitors, 

And up with the stars! 

Fur we’ll rally round the flag, boys 
We’ll rally round the flag, 

Shou-ting the battle cry of Freedom.’ 

“She used to wear, on the ample bosom of her dress, 
a small tin ornament whereon was painted the Ameri- 
can flag. Below the flag was a scroll bearing the 
word “Lincoln.” To this day I never hear the word 
‘loyal’ without recalling Langly’s whiskers. I never 


— 56 — 


GILBERTS HISTORY. 


see the flag of my country without thinking of that 
young woman and her badge. Long since I have 
come to respect the memory of Abraham Lincoln; 
and I wish, O how I wish I could recall his honored 
name without recalling, at the same time, that tin 
thing on the bosom of that fat girl’s dress. Such and 
so potent is the association of ideas. If I had been 
provost marshal of that district, I should have upheld 
the dignity of my cause and the glory of my flag by 
suppressing Langly and his girl. 

‘"Langly discovered, in some way, the presence of 
that Confederate soldier in the neighborhood. One 
night, while the man was at our place, a company of 
militia, led by one of Langly’s sons, and accompanied 
by Langly himself, burst in upon us. 

“It is not for me to say how far the genius of Colum- 
bia rejoiced at the spectacle of this patriot sacrificing 
the home of his benefactor, as a whole burnt offering, 
on the country’s altar. I am sure, my poor old mother 
never in all her gentle life heard the sin of rebellion 
set forth in such peculiar language as Langly adopted 
for that purpose on that occasion. As a Bible reader 
she knew perhaps how Samuel the prophet had 
likened the sin of rebellion unto that of witchcraft, 
but Samuel had confined himself to a mere statement 
of the facts, without embellishment. Langly had 
greater liberty of speech. 

— 57 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


'‘My mother pleaded for her home, poor soul, not 
realizing at first that her home was likely to be only a 
part of her loss. They bound my hands behind my 
back, and they did like office for my friend, the Con- 
federate soldier. We had a convenient tree in the 
door-yard, a large, beautiful tree, with long, arching 
branches. They put ropes about our necks, casting 
the loose ends over suitable limbs. As my feet left 
the earth, fire burst through the roof of my child- 
hood’s home, and I heard my mother scream as she 
struggled to come to me. It was the last accent of 
her voice I was ever to hear this side of the grave. 

“My next knowledge of things terrestrial was find- 
ing myself stretched upon the grass in the yard. The 
house was a heap of coals; my mother lay dead a 
few feet away; somebody had folded her hands across 
her breast and covered her face with a napkin. When 
my enemies hung me, they did not wait to see the 
end of their work, but rode away upon some other 
errand in the country’s service, leaving one of their 
number on guard. This man was an old neighbor in 
whose breast patriotism had not quite curdled the 
milk of human kindness. He cut me down, as soon as 
his companions were gone, and helped me back to 
life. As to my mother, she was dead; her heart had 
always been weak, and the excitement had been too 
much for her. The militiaman had not extended his 


— 58 — 


GILBERTS HISTORY. 


sympathy to my companion in misfortune, who still 
hung swaying in the summer wind. The man who 
saved my life urged me to lose no time in getting 
away, for his sake as well as mine. I kissed my dead 
mother’s lips and silently and reverently begged her 
forgiveness for every sorrow I had ever caused her. 
Then I took the rope which had done duty as hang- 
man’s halter, went out to the woods, found my own 
horse, mounted him and rode away south. Before I 
left, however, the militiaman promised to see that my 
mother was properly buried. 

“No need to give the details of my journey south. 
In a little forest glade, near the Osage river, I found 
the man I sought. I will not say what man he was. 
His name was, and is, a name of terror — a name to 
conjure devils with. Of the bloody specters of that 
time, hereafter to be invoked by the pen of the his- 
torian and novelist, he will be the king of them all. 
I could give you some interesting details of my inter- 
view with him, but it grows late. The upshot of it 
was that I became a member of his band. Till the 
war ended I rode with him, and with those others, 
his lieutenants, whose names are only a little less ter- 
rible than his. I have killed more men that you have 
hairs in that nice, brown moustache of yours. I have 
been shot, starved, hunted like a wolf, expecting no 
mercy, asking none, granting none. I have taken 
— G9 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


ample vengeance for the gray hairs of my mother, 
knowing well that she would have been the first to 
say, ^Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ There came 
a day when we crossed to the north of the river and 
turned the heads of our horses westward. The “paw- 
paw” militia followed us, at a safe distance, yet not 
so joyfully, I think, as the crows and buzzards. Some 
of our men had adopted the Indian custom of scalping 
their enemies. I never practised the art but once, 
when I ‘lifted’ the hair of that distinguished patriot 
Langly. If ever you come to the place where I keep^ 
the cherished mementoes of my past, you shall see for 
yourself the color of his hair, and the quality of it. 

“When the war ended, I was not included in the 
amnesty, neither I nor my companions. Therefore it 
was in order to take and slay us, and a great many 
people tried to do so. It was not easy to settle down 
into any honest calling, — but do not imagine I am 
trying to plead the injured innocent. That idea has 
been somewhat overworked in our case, as it seems 
to me. I am what I am from deliberate choice, — 
what the law calls a criminal, and the novel writers, 
sometimes, a gallant outlaw. I have a good educa- 
tion, like good literature, abhor strong drink and pro- 
fanity, and I keep no low company — except in the 
way of business. I only make confidants of such 
people as I desire to attach to me for the immediate 


— 60 — 


GILBERTS HISTORY. 

purposes I may have in view, and to them I confide 
only so much as suits me. And now, good-night to 
you.” 

And he rolled himself in his blanket and turned his 
face to the wall. 


--61 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


CHAPTER IV. 

BEULAH. 

The events of the day were repeated, over and over 
again, in my dreams, mixing themselves up strangely 
with the events of Gilbert’s narrative. It must have 
been long after midnight when my sleep became 
sound and dreamless. The morning sun, shining 
through the orifice designed for a window, waked me 
at last. I looked toward the place where my compan- 
ion had slept; he was not there, but at that moment I 
heard a clear, sweet tenor voice singing: 

So tender, so precious, 

My Saviour to me; 

So true and so gracious 
Tve found Him to be. 

How can I but love Him? 

But love Him, but love Him? 

There’s no friend above Him, 

Poor sinner, for thee. 

Was Gilbert the singer? I could hardly believe it. 
I got up and went outside. He had spitted the prairie- 
chicken on a stick, which now rested on two forked 
willow boughs, over a bed of coals. His coat and 
waistcoat hung upon some brushwood; the rifle he 
had taken from the vigilant leaned against the side of 
— 62 — 


BEULAH. 


the hill ; a belt, supporting two revolvers and a shining 
array of brass cartridges, was buckled about his waist. 
He had been to the brook for a bath, and he now 
stood with his face toward the opposite hill, combing 
his long, blue-black hair with a pocket comb. From 
this vocalist, so surrounded, so occupied, so attired, 
came the words : 

“His beauty though bleeding. 

And circled with thorns, 

Is then most exceeding, 

For grief Him adorns. 

How can I but love Him? 

But love Him, but love Him? 

There’s no friend above Him, 

Poor sinner, for thee.” 

For my part, though the words were very pretty, 
and though they were well sung, I was more offend- 
ed than pleased to hear them, recalling, as I did, 
the story of his life as related by him a few hours 
before. As I approached the fire, he turned and 
greeted me cheerfully — according to his ideas of 
cheerfulness. 

''Good morning, my young friend. Did you sleep 
tight — as the children say? How does the brand of 
Cain feel by this time? Better go down and have a 
bath. All the perfumes of Araby will not sweeten that 
little right hand of yours, but you may be able to 
remove some of the soil of this pleasant, happy-land- 
— 63 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


of-Canaan where we are tabernacling at this time. 
Hurry, for breakfast will soon be ready.^’ 

Seven days followed of wearisome, monotonous 
scramble from hill to gully, from gully to hill. Never 
possible to go one mile in a straight line. Many and 
many a time we climbed, with infinite labor, to the 
top of some cliff only to find that the way by which 
we had come was the only way down. Sometimes, in 
the ascent or descent of a hill, one or the other of 
us would slip and roll clear to the bottom unless 
stopped by some clump of bushes or some projection 
of the cliff. We waded streams, breast-deep some- 
times, holding our weapons and ammunition above 
our heads. There were days when we had not a mor- 
sel of food, and nights when we slept in wet blankets 
on muddy ground. 

I confess, I sometimes lost my temper and was 
often sullen and dispirited; but my companion never 
lost his cheerfulness for a moment. There was surely 
some capability of greatness in him, if he had but 
chosen the right course in life. In the day there was 
not much opportunity for talk, but at night, if we had 
any tolerable resting-place, and were not too tired to 
talk, Gilbert proved himself a charming companion. 
At times he would sing, the songs being usually of a 
religious character. Or he might discuss some relig- 
ious, philosophical, or political theory in a manner 


— 64 — 


BEULAH. 


that, while it might not be profound, was sure to be 
original. He knew by heart whole pages of Byron, 
Moore, and Scott, and he could quote more passages 
from Shakespeare than any man I have ever known. 
He had read much in the Bible and had a wonderful 
knack of quoting scripture for purposes of argument. 
Then, too, he had many a thrilling story to relate of 
his adventures in the wicked guerrilla life he had led. 

At last, in the middle of the afternoon, on the eighth 
day of this horrible journey, we reached the north- 
eastern border of the '‘Kingdom,’’ and descended to 
the more level prairie. I verily believe that two more 
forlorn human scarecrows never stood in the light of 
day. Our raggedness was all the more striking, if 
anybody had been there to see, because of the original 
fineness of our clothes. I had on the ragged rem- 
nants of a broadcloth frock-coat, the tattered relics of 
what had been -a pair of fine broadcloth pantaloons, 
and the wreck of a waistcoat which had been white on 
the morning of the fourteenth of June. The descrip- 
tion of my clothes will serve very well for Gilbert’s, 
except that his were not torn in exactly the same 
way, or in the same places. Then, in addition to this 
condition of looped-and-windowed raggedness, we had 
to consider the fact that we were heavily arme^, and 
to imagine the sensation we should create if we sud- 
denly appeared among civilized people. 

— 65 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


Where we came out upon the prairie, there was a 
spring near a small clump of bushes. Here Gilbert 
was so fortunate as to kill a deer with the rifle. We 
made a fire and cooked some of the meat, eating it as 
only hungry men could eat meat, half raw, without 
salt. 

The shadow of the hill fell over our camping-place, 
and we lay there in the shade wondering what we 
ought to do next. While we debated this matter, we 
saw, low down on the eastern horizon, a small cloud 
of very black smoke. After a while we made out that 
this smoke was moving. Gilbert said at last: 

“There is a railroad over there.” 

And then we began to debate the question of our 
next move. To my mind, the issue was a very simple 
one. We could go back to the “Kingdom” and be 
safe; in which case we must sooner or later die of 
starvation and exposure; or we could go on to the 
nearest town, and get better clothes and something to 
eat; in that case we would be arrested, because, in 
the first place, any right-minded officer of the law 
would arrest such a pair on suspicion and, in the sec- 
ond place, the people of Gopher City must have used 
the telegraph, so that every sheriff, town marshal, and 
constable on the line of this road would be on the 
lookout for us. As I saw it, we might as well go back 
to Gopher City and enter the place in broad day, with 
— 66 — 


BEULAH. 


a brass band, as to appear in any town along that 
railroad dressed and equipped as we were. 

Gilbert congratulated me on what he was pleased to 
call my very clear and logical summing up of the 
case, but he had very little to say, except to declare 
that whatever happens in this life has been unchange- 
ably ordained before the foundation of the world. 
When I asked him if he had any idea as to what the 
immutable decree might be in this case, he admitted 
that he had not. The upshot of our conference was 
that we decided to go forward warily and be guided 
by circumstances. 

The next day, after we resumed our journey, set- 
ting our course by compass in the direction of the 
place where we had seen the smoke, Gilbert conde- 
scended to explain to me, in part, why he had attached 
himself to me. 

“You may weU believe,’’ he said, “that a man with 
my knowledge and experience of men and events does 
not become accessory after the fact, in cases of homi- 
cide, from a chivalrous wish to help a noble young 
man in trouble. You may perhaps remember that 
when I first saw you in Gopher City, I approached you 
as if about to claim your acquaintance. That was be- 
cause you bear a very striking resemblance to some 
one I know elsewhere. I was certainly very much 
surprised to find that individual in that town and, es- 
— 67 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 

pecially, in that kind of a place. This, together with 
the fact that you did not know me, or did not wish to 
be recognized, prevented the greeting I was about to 
offer. 

'‘1 decided to make some inquiries, and they quickly 
settled the matter to my entire satisfaction, for I soon 
discovered that you were, from a moral point of view, 
not at all like the man whom you so much resemble 
physically. I think you are his equal mentally, if not 
his superior, and I take great pleasure in saying so, 
because I do not want to be more offensive than a 
strict adherence to truth requires. Your fellow-towns- 
men were unanimous as to that. They also agreed 
that you had a fair amount of courage or coolness — 
what is called nerve; and I cannot doubt it with the 
experiences of these last few days fresh in my memory. 
But, Mr. Carmichael, — I hardly know how to express 
it. The truth is you — Well, you are not quite what I 
should describe as a person of the strictest integrity 
of mind and heart — as the world looks at such things. 
No, never look fierce about it. You must surely know 
that yonder little affair of the 'jack-pot’ was not 
strictly according to — what’s his name — Hoyle. Not 
according to Hoyle. Then you have a certain sly, 
demure, hypocritical way which enables you, I dare 
say, to fool yourself at times. Perhaps some day you 
will be a church-member in good standing, and it is 


— 68 — 


BEULAH, 


conceivable that you may even believe in your own 
goodness, to a certain extent; but you will never be, 
while you live, goods of the right width and quality. 

^‘1 have said all this as a preface to some further 
talk I hope to have with you soon, with reference to a 
certain great scheme in which I wish to have your 
assistance. I will only say now that it has to do with 
your wonderful resemblance to the person I have men- 
tioned. I have it all mapped out in my mind, except 
as to some minor details. There is money in it, big 
money for us both.” 

I spent most of the forenoon in trying to prove to 
Gilbert that, in his estimate of my character he was 
grossly at fault, but could obtain no admission of any 
mistake from him. He only laughed and said: 

“Well, the Lord knows his own, Mr. Carmichael, 
and to them He will make known His purposes in due 
time. I do not presume to say you are not of the 
elect, but I cheerfully admit you are no bad hand at 
argument.” 

About noon we came to a small, wooded valley 
through which ran a bright little river, where, as the 
day was warm, we were glad to quench our thirst. 
As we could not ford the stream at the place where 
we reached it, a doubt arose as to whether it would be 
better to go up the stream or down it in search of a 
crossing. We settled the matter by tossing up a coin, 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


and the coin decided for up stream. I mention the 
incident for the benefit of those who believe the world 
is ruled by chance. For in settling this point we 
settled also the question of our final deliverance from 
our present trouble. In a little while, as we m.ade our 
way up the river, we heard voices before us. 
We advanced cautiously and came to the camp of an 
emigrant woman, whose dire misfortune, so won- 
drously are the affairs of this world ordered, proved 
of great benefit to us. Her husband lay dead upon 
a pallet by the camp-fire and she, with two children 
clinging to her dress, was weeping by his side. I have 
no thought of trying to describe this heart-rending 
scene at length. We approached the place and offered 
her such help as we could give. She did not appear 
to notice our exceedingly disreputable appearance. So 
dreadful was her situation, with her dear little ones 
in that wilderness, that she must have been glad of our 
help without troubling herself about our looks. Also, 
being from one of the older states of the union, she 
may have thought we wore the ordinary garb of the 
country. 

We buried the man that same day. There was a 
spade in the wagon and we lined the grave with 
boards obtained by knocking to pieces some of the 
boxes in which her goods were packed. It must have 
been sad for her, poor soul, to see him buried in that 


— 70 — 


BEULAH. 


rude way, but we did the best we could, and she 
seemed grateful. 

While we were digging the grave, a short distance 
from the camp, Gilbert pointed out to me those as- 
pects of the case which he regarded as truly providen- 
tial — as far as we were concerned. He was sure, he 
said, that we could buy the woman’s property — ^wagon, 
horses, provisions and cooking utensils. She must 
also have in her possession some clothing of her dead 
husband. There would, in all probability, be enough 
to furnish us both with a tolerably decent outfit. Our 
faces were now much tanned, our beards had more 
than a week’s growth, nobody would be on the look- 
out, anywhere, for a couple of respectably dressed 
emigrants. Hence, all things considered, the danger 
of being taken by our enemies would not be worth a 
moment’s worry. 

The woman v/as glad to sell, and she named a price 
which was very reasonable. After our sad task was 
ended, she prepared supper and, while we ate, she 
told us the story of her husband’s sickness and death. 
It was a sad story, but I cannot repeat it here. She 
gave us her husband’s clothes and we went a short 
distance away and were soon sound asleep for the 
night. 

As part of the bargain we had to take her to the 
nearest railroad station, which proved to be a sm.all 
— 71 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


depot where there was only a railroad office and a 
house for the man in charge. We arranged for the 
shipment of such of her effects as she did not wish to 
sell; and we saw her safely aboard a passenger train, 
bound east for her home in Indiana. 

And there are people who do not believe in chance ! 

Some weeks later we sold the team to a man in 
Eastern Kansas, at a fair profit on the original invest- 
ment. There, no doubt, I should have parted from 
Gilbert; but there were various reasons why I did not 
— reasons which seemed very strong to me then. In 
the first place, he kept hinting at a great plan of his 
whereby we might make several thousand dollars in 
a very short time, promising to give me the details of 
it when we got to the scene of operations. Certainly, 
I was not averse to making as many thousand dollars 
as might be made honestly, within a reasonable time, 
having a high and, I hope, just appreciation of the 
value of money as a means of doing good in this world. 
In the second place, I was afraid of Gilbert — a sin- 
gular reason, the reader may think, for remaining in 
his company. It is not to be denied that he was a 
very pleasant, companionable man at times. Never- 
theless he let me see, every day and in many ways, 
that he was a hardened, desperate, wicked person 
with no proper notion of the sacredness of human 
life. Then, too, his knowledge of the affair at the 


— 72 — 


BEULAH, 


Rock Crystal virtually placed me in his power. He 
did not, at this period of our intercourse, hint at any 
intention of using that affair as a coercive measure, 
because I was wise enough not to bring matters to 
that issue. Life, ever sweet to the young, was sweet 
to me, and hence I decided to cast in my lot with him 
for the time being. Perhaps my guardian angel wept 
when I so decided. 

The sun was low when we reached the top of the 
ridge which bounds, on the West, the valley in which 
the town of El Agua is situated. The place is in the 
Ozark region of Southwest Missouri. As it is at least 
fifteen miles from the nearest railroad station, we were 
approaching it in a hack, from Schneidervale. We 
did not enter the town, but left the carriage at the bot- 
tom of the hill, and turned off, on a dim, rocky road 
which led away around the north end of the town, 
as near as I could make out. 

We walked about three miles along this road, or 
rather path, until we came down into a place where 
the ground was flat and heavily timbered. Evidently 
this was bottom land adjacent to some river. Pres- 
ently we had on our right a Virginia rail fence which 
seemed to be the northern boundary of an uncultivated 
farm. There was a quarter of a mile of thisTence, 
and then, at the northeastern angle of the inclosure, 
we came upon a building of the kind known as a 
— 73 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


“double-log house.” It was two stories in height, and 
the logs were hewn, but there were many outward 
signs of neglect. Along the front of it was a narrow 
verandah with a clap-board roof. In one of the lower 
rooms, through a window curtained with muslin, a 
light could be seen — for by this time it was growing 
dark. It seemed that this house was to be the end of 
our journey for that day. We crossed the fence by 
means of a stile arid approached the building. As we 
came upon the porch a dog began to bark furiously, 
somewhere inside, — a large dog, to judge by his voice. 
Then the light vanished and some one said: 

“Who is it?” 

“Tie up the dog, Beulah, and let us in,” said Gilbert. 

The barking ceased and I heard the rattle of a chain, 
as if the animal were being led from the room. At 
last the door opened and a woman appeared in the 
doorway. It was so dark I could not see what the 
woman was like. Gilbert kissed her and said: 

“My dear sister, how are you?” 

She replied that she was quite well. The speech was 
commonplace, but the voice was not. It was not a 
masculine voice, yet it was not like any female voice 
I had ever heard. It was not coarse, not harsh, not 
rough. It was deep-toned — so deep as to be almost a 
mellow bass. 

“Better light a lamp, my dear, as my friend and the 


— 74 — 


BEULAH. 


dog might get mixed pp in the dark. She disappeared 
for a moment and then there was a glimmer of light 
on the floor inside. Gilbert invited me to follow him, 
and we entered a room which appeared to be a sort of 
passage formed by boarding up the space between the 
two “pens” which formed the main part of the build- 
ing. From this we passed into the room where the 
light had first appeared. The place was clean and 
very simply furnished. At one end of the room was 
a fire-place filled with green bushes; the logs, with the 
“chinking” between had been recently whitewashed. 
There was a clean-looking bed with white pillows and 
counterpane. The floor was covered with a rag car- 
pet, and there were some chairs and a few other cheap 
articles of furniture. 

“Sister Beulah, this is my friend, Mr. Michael Car- 
michael. My sister, Mr. Carmichael.” 

This was my introduction to this mysterious woman. 
I say mysterious because I know no more of her past, 
at this moment, than I knew when I first met her. 
She was a small woman, a good deal under medium 
size, I should say. There was no color of blood in 
her face; its ghastly, corpse-like appearance was em- 
phasized, so to speak, by certain dark splotches, such 
as are seen in the faces of dead people when the first 
dreadful signs of decomposition appear. Her thin 
lips were blue, as if she might be cold. She had pale- 
— 75 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


yellow hair, and there was not too much of it. She 
had large, cold, lusterless, gray eyes. Her dress came 
down only to the tops of her shoes, and she had on a 
checked apron with a bib. If I had entered that room 
alone at that hour, and this lady had seen proper^ to 
receive me in a white sheet, bidding me welcome in 
that deep voice of hers, it would have required a v<ery 
strong room to hold us both. 

She was polite enough in her greeting to me and 
appeared to be glad to see Gilbert. Though painfully 
aware of the impropriety of my conduct, I could not 
keep from staring at her and she, for some reason, 
appeared to be unable to keep from staring at me. 
After a while she left the room to prepare supper for 
us. At the supper table she said: 

“I must beg your pardon, Mr. Carmichael, for star- 
ing at you, but your resemblance to — to some one else 
is so very remarkable, that it is hard for me to believe 
I am not the victim of some practical joke on the part 
of my brother.” 

“I have heard something of this before,” I said, 
“yet the likeness can hardly have impressed you as it 
did your brother. He quite mistook me for — for the 
other fellow, whoever he is.” 

“Yes, but I was prepared for something of the kind. 
When my brother wrote me from Kansas City, an- 


— 76 — 


BEULAH. 


nouncing your visit, he mentioned the fact that you 
were wonderfully like — 

“Like A B, let us say!” interrupted Gilbert. 

The next morning I took an early opportunity to 
examine the place. On all sides the clearing was sur- 
rounded by a very dense forest. The road, as I have 
said, was on the north side of the field. Beyond the 
little farm, a quarter of a mile to the east, it led to a 
ford of a little river. The only part of the land in cul- 
tivation was a small patch of garden ground near the 
house. Yet, although there was no sign of any wagon, 
cart, plow or other agricultural implement, with the 
exception of a hoe and rake near the garden, there 
were three good horses in the stable. After breakfast 
Gilbert said to me : 

‘T must go over to El Agua. I would ask you to 
ride over with me, only for good and sufficient reasons 
— reasons which you shall know in time — I want to 
keep you in the background for the present. You 
might go down to the river and try the fishing — there 
is plenty of fishing tackle and a minnow net. Or, if 
you prefer to read, Beaulah has some books which 
she will be glad to lend you. Anyway, try to pass the 
time as pleasantly as possible. I will come back by 
noon.” 

I went to the river because I wanted to be alone. 
I was not quite satisfied with these new surroundings. 

^77 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


There was Gilbert’s sister, for instance. In that story 
of his life, told by him in the dug-out, he had said 
nothing of a sister. I had supposed that he was an 
only child, the spoiled darling of his unfortunate 
mother. Was the whole story a fiction? Certainly, 
he had not told me the whole truth if this woman 
was indeed his sister. Several times since then he had 
intimated to me that he lived in this part of the state, 
but he had never given me the least hint of what his 
home was like. Not being entirely devoid of interest 
in the subject, I had settled several points in my own 
mind. I had persuaded myself that he lived at a 
boarding-house in some small town, where he carried 
on some kind of business which, although it might be 
a cover to some dark designs, would nevertheless be 
outwardly respectable. I had gone so far as to guess 
the exact nature of his calling. I had decided that he 
must be a lawyer, who perhaps added a real estate 
business to his practice, and hence it seemed probable 
that his contemplated scheme would turn out to be 
some kind of real estate speculation in which he 
wanted my help. But when I saw this house, three 
miles away from any other habitation, I had to admit 
that all my theories were wrong. 

Perhaps the reader will wonder at what may, at 
first sight, appear to be my amazing imprudence in 
allowing myself to be persuaded to come so far, by a 
— 78 — 


BEULAH. 


man who was, comparatively, a stranger, and to em- 
bark in a business the nature of which was entirely 
unknown to me. The man knew I was possessed of a 
considerable sum of money and he was, on his own 
showing, a hardened, desperate criminal. Yet it must 
be remembered that, if murder had been his object, he 
might easily have killed me in the Kingdom, with 
perfect safety to himself. Also, I ought to state here 
that, acting by his advice, I had deposited my money 
in a bank at Kansas City — all except a small sum for 
incidental expenses. I had no uneasiness on that 
score, but still I wanted to be alone, and so I went to 
a shady spot on the river’s bank to fish — and think. 


— 79 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


CHAPTER V. 

THE PLOT. 

It was ten o’clock when I returned to the house. 
Miss Gilbert kindly offered to cook the fish I had 
caught, but firmly declined my offer to assist in dress- 
ing them. This was a disappointment to me, for I 
wished to try my conversational powers on her, with 
a view to drawing her out — as we lawyers say^ — on the 
subject of her brother. There is not, I confess, much 
food for laughter in my recollections of Beulah, but 
I laugh now when I think of my poor little plan to get 
the better of her discretion. Gilbert got home in time 
to be present at the noon dinner. 

I have now to relate the substance of the conversa- 
tion between the brother and sister at this meal. I 
thought little of it at the time, but I had good reason 
to remember it afterwards, because of a singular and 
sinister event with which it is associated — an event 
which, as will be seen, had an important bearing upon 
the destinies of this singular couple. 

It appeared from the conversation, that about six 
weeks before our arrival a man had called at the house, 
pretending to be in search of work. He had come 
out, so he said, from El Agua. He was a very re- 


— 80 


THE PLOT, 


spectable looking individual, evidently a very nice, 
clean, capable farm-hand. He wore about his neck 
a new, red cotton handkerchief; he had on a pair of 
new overalls the legs of which were tucked into a 
pair of new, red-topped boots ; he seemed to be about 
thirty-five years old and was, in appearance, quite the 
ideal man-of-all-work. Being told there was no em- 
ployment for him, he asked for a glass of water. 
Beulah, when she gave him the water, was much 
struck by the whiteness and softness of this stalwart 
young ploughman’s hands. She also observed a scar 
on his right hand, — a small white seam between the 
thumb and forefinger. 

''Ah,” said Gilbert, "you had no work for him? No, 
of course, you were all alone. What a pity — ^what a 
great pity!” 

To me it was not clear why it was a pity. Beulah 
went on to say that a few days after the visit of this 
farm hand, a man had called to see if the "man of the 
house” had any stock — hogs — to sell. It had been 
raining and this person wore a rubber coat which was 
liberally bespattered with mud. He carried a stock 
whip, which he handled with the air of a thoroughly 
wide-awake drover. He rode upon a mule. 

"Like Absalom?” suggested Gilbert. ~ 

"In respect of the mule, like Absalom; but, in one 
respect, most unlike him. It is written of that fine 
— 81 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


young prince that, from the crown of his head to the 
soles of his feet, there was no blemish on him. This 
typical cattleman had a blemish, for as he flicked at 
the weeds by the roadside with his whip, I observed a 
small white scar between the thumb and forefinger of 
his right hand.’’ 

“This morning,” she continued, “while Mr. Car- 
michael was fishing, a very nice old gentleman came 
here in a buggy. It was a very prosperous-looking old 
person, and he said he wanted to buy land in the 
neighborhood. Observing the condition of this little 
farm he had ventured to call and ask if the place was 
for sale. I told him we were only tenants, but that, 
if he cared to write it down, I could give him the own- 
er’s address. He thanked me, and, after inquiring if 
he could speak to “the man of the house,” got out a 
memorandum book and took down the address. To 
do this he had to remove the glove from his right 
hand. There was a scar between the forefinger and 
thumb.” 

After dinner Gilbert said briskly: 

“Now for business. My visit to El Agua to-day 
was ostensibly to bring away our valises from the hotel 
where the hack driver had left them, but in reality I 
wished to know whether a certain person was at home. 
I want you to see him, but without being seen yourself 


— 82 — 



*' THIS IS YOUR FAMOUS SPECULATION, IS IT?” — Page 83. 






THE PLOT. 


— at least until we have effected some changes in your 
personal appearance.” 

He invited me to accompany him to the stable. We 
ascended to the loft where we found a quantity of oats 
sheaves piled in the middle of the floor. Gilbert took 
a pitchfork and tossed the sheaves aside, until he un- 
covered an old trunk, which he dragged to the small 
window through which grain was passed into the loft. 
He opened the trunk and, to my great surprise, I saw 
that it contained, among various other articles, a large 
. assortment of false beards and wigs. 

“Aha,” I said, “this is your famous speculation, is it? 
We are to take the road with a dramatic company! 
Well, we might do worse. Often and often I have 
felt that I might succeed on the stage. 

‘ Now is the winter of our discontent — ” 

“Hush!” said Gilbert. “ I never saw such a guesser. 
But do not proclaim the secret from the house-tops — 
or from the stable-loft either.” 

I picked up a wig of long, coarse, rust-colored hair, 
which attracted my attention by its striking combina- 
tion of ugliness and seeming excellent workmanship. 
Before I could frame a question concerning it, Gilbert 
said: “That’s Langly’s scalp.” I didn’t understand 
at once, but the joy and pride in his voice was so mani- 
fest, that I turned my eyes inquiringly at him, and was 
shocked by the cruel hatred and wicked triumph shin- 
-83 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


ing from his eyes. Then I suddenly remembered his 
story — and dropped the red mass as if it were a hot 
coal. 

“Here, try this thing on!” he said. 

The “thing” was made to look, externally, like a 
crop of black hair closely trimmed. It was designed 
to fit the head like a cap — did, in fact, fit my head very 
nicely. When my companion took a small hand-mir- 
ror from the trunk and showed me my reflection in it, 
I was startled. For my own hair being light, inclining 
even to red, the change in my appearance was very 
striking. My companion, rummaging in the trunk 
once more, produced a small pair of scissors. 

“Now,” he said, “it seems a pity to sacrifice that 
lovely fox-colored — beg pardon — blonde moustache, 
but it must come of¥.” 

And he clipoed it as closely as he could with the 
shears. 

“There,” he said, when he was through, “finish the 
job with your razor when you go to the house. Then, 
if you wear these smoked glasses, you will do very 
well.” 

“But what is the part I am to act in this make-up?” 

“You are to take the part of young Mr. Discretion 
in a drama called ‘Sordid Dust.’ ” 

He then set to work to restore the trunk to its 
former hiding place under the sheaves. When we 


— 84 — 


THE PLOT, 


went to the house Beulah made no comment on my 
altered appearance. She did not even seem to notice 
it. 

“If they are really actors,” I said to myself, “she 
must be well used to this sort of thing.” Next morning 
Gilbert and I rode into El Agua, the famous health 
resort of Southwest Missouri. For ages, no doubt, 
a spring of remarkably clear water had been bubbling 
up in a cup-shaped depression at the bottom of one 
of the hills of the Ozarks. The spring was the source 
of a small brook, which crept modestly away, almost 
lost among ferns, in a crooked channel, until it united 
with a much larger stream miles away. The water had 
a queer taste, and it left a yellow sediment on the 
rocks over which it flowed. The venerable mountain 
patriarch who owned all the land for several miles 
around the spring, had a son who was a law student 
in the University of Missouri. This youth had, of 
course, been familiar with the spring since childhood; 
but one day, while home on a vacation, it suddenly oc- 
curred to him that it might be well to have some of 
this water analyzed by the college chemist. The chem- 
ist made a “qualitative” analysis which disclosed a 
good many unexpected things in the water. There 
were silicon, and sodium, and ferrum, and magnesium 
— and ever so many other things ending in “on” and 
“um.” The young man did not know what these 
— 85 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


might be worth to the human family, from a medical 
standpoint; but he thought perhaps they might be 
worth something to him, from a financial standpoint. 
Certainly it did not seem reasonable to suppose that 
Nature would be at the trouble of mixing a chemical 
formula like that if it were not good to take for some 
human ailment. The patriarch died, and the son 
published the analysis in the newspapers, organized a 
town-site company, with his brothers and sisters and 
himself as shareholders, and laid out a town, with a 
generous allotment of ground about the spring for a 
park. One result of the enterprise is now to be seen 
in the prosperous health resort, El Agua. It seemed 
proper to give the place a Spanish name, although 
the only Spaniard ever certainly known to be in that 
neighborhood was Hernando De Soto, who, according 
to a venerable tradition — of the town-site company — 
used the water for his rheumatism, obtaining instant 
and permanent relief. However this may be, there 
were scores of people, while I was visiting the place, 
who were continually rising up and calling that young 
m.an and his relatives blessed; and it was pointed out 
to me, in that connection, that rheumatic people are 
not given to rising up suddenly except for extraordi- 
nary reasons. 

We reached El Agua about nine in the forenoon and 
put our horses in a livery stable. There was some 
— 88 — 


THE PLOT. 


kind of celebration that day — anniversary of some- 
thing — I forget what. Already the park was thronged 
with the villagers, and wagons were constantly arriv- 
ing, filled with country people. 

The great event of the day was to be the delivery of 
certain speeches by ''eminent public speakers secured 
for the occasion.” For the accommodation of these 
orators a platform had been constructed, not far from 
the spring, in the shade of some large trees. In front 
of this platform seats had been prepared for the ac- 
commodation of the hearers. Sometime before these 
exercises began Gilbert and I secured two of the seats 
farthest from the platform. 

"I want you,” said Gilbert, "to look closely at the 
young man who will act as master of ceremonies.” 

By this time the chairs on the platform were occu- 
pied by the gentlemen who were to speak. When the 
band quit playing, one of them, a young man in a gray 
suit, arose and advanced to the front of the stand and 
began to call for order. 

"That is the man,” whispered my companion. 

It is not easy for me to describe my sensations when 
I looked at him for the first time. I had an impres- 
sion that he was known to me; that somewhere, at 
some time, I had even known him intimately. ^When 
he spoke there was something strangely familiar in 
the sound of his voice. I was sure, in another minute, 


— 87 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


I should be able to name him. Yet somehow the name 
did not come and the consequent feeling of bewilder- 
ment on my part grew to be absolutely painful. Gil- 
bert touched me on the shoulder, when the man had 
finished the brief speech he had to make. 

“Well,” he whispered, “do you know him?” 

“Yes — O yes — I certainly know him. What is 
more, I know him well. His name is — ^wait a minute 
— ^what is his name? Where have I seen him, or some 
one like him?” 

“The last time you looked in the glass. That is, 
the last time before you shaved and put on a wig.” 

I looked at the man again. It was true. In height, 
figure, color of eyes and hair, in feature, in voice, in 
gesture even, the man was my counterpart. But why 
should the discovery give me a chilly feeling along the 
spinal column? I do not know why, but it did. 

“Come away,” whispered Gilbert. 

We went to a remote corner of the park where we 
were quite alone. 

“Have you a twin brother?” he asked. 

“No,” I replied. “So far as I know, I have no living 
relative.” 

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Rather a heartless 
speech, eh? But if you have no living relative, it fol- 
lows, of course, that this man is no kin to you. Hence 
you will have the less reluctance to enter heart and 


— 88 — 


THE PLOT. 

soul into — into the part of young Mr. Discretion, you 
know.” 

Now I had for some time perceived that my notion 
about the drama was all wrong, because when I had 
time to think the matter over, I saw the idea was fool- 
ish for many reasons; but I said: 

‘‘What has my resemblance to this young man to 
do with my acting a part in a play?” 

“Wait. This is not the time or place to discuss that. 
We will talk when we get home. I wanted you to see 
this man for your own satisfaction — and information.” 

“But who is he?” I said. “What is he?” 

“His name is Hamilton Lindsay. He lives here 
with his mother and sister, and he is a lawyer — an- 
other remarkable point of resemblance, by the way. 
But now, as a matter of prudence, let us separate. 
Meet me at the livery stable at three o’clock.” 

It was nearly four o’clock when we got home. Af- 
ter caring for our horses we went to the house and 
found Beulah on the verandah, reading. The weather 
was very warm and, as the porch was a cool place, 
we joined her there. Gilbert wasted no time. He 
drew his chair up near mine and began: 

The time has come, the walrus said, 

To talk of many things, — 

Of shoes — and ships — and sealing wax — 

Of cannibals — and kings — 

And why the sea is boiling hot — 

And whether pigs have wings.” * 


— 89 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 

"‘In other words, the time has come for a council 
of war. My sister Beulah must be taken into our con- 
fidence, for many reasons. For this reason, among 
others, that I know her to be a person of fine judg- 
ment and sound discretion, perfectly loyal to any cause 
she may espouse.” 

The lady acknowledged this handsome compliment 
by turning down a leaf to mark her place in the book, 
depositing the book on the floor by her chair, and 
folding her hands in her lap. 

‘‘My friend, Michael, has seen Hamilton Lindsay, 
my dear.” 

She made no reply. She appeared to be contem- 
plating the tops of the trees across the road. 

“He was overpowed by the resemblance,” he added. 

“I was overpowered by it myself,” she said. 

“And surely it is no light thing that overpowers 
you, my dear. But let us come to the point. The 
point is that Mr. Carmichael must go to Kansas City 
at once, and insure his life for as many thousand dol- 
lars as we can pay premium on for a year.” 

Beulah turned her livid face toward me and stared 
at me with her cold, lusterless, gray eyes. For the 
second time that day I experienced a sensation of cold 
along my spinal column. 

“What on earth do you mean?” I managed to say at 
last. 


— 90 — 


THE PLOT. 


mean what I say. Of course, I will pay half the 
premium.” 

“But why, in the name of common sense? And 
what has insuring my life got to do with — ” 

“With young Lindsay? Suppose that young legal 
light should suddenly go out? What if I tell you he 
has hardly six months to live? Will it be possible for 
you, do you think, to grasp the idea that such a chance 
can only happen about one time in a thousand years?” 

“I do not know,” I said. “I have not seen this 
chance yet — whatever it is.” 

“All in good time. No man should ever give him- 
self up for an idiot, while he has youth and oppor- 
tunity to learn. Listen. If young Lindsay dies he 
will be buried. I know you to be tainted with Armin- 
ianism, but you are surely not so heretical as to doubt 
the resurrection of the dead. Do you begin to see 
now?” 

I began to be uncomfortable. Was it possible, I 
began to ask himself, that I had been in company with 
a lunatic all this time? I had read of the diabolical 
cunning which enables insane persons to conceal their 
malady sometimes, even from experts. Were Gilbert 
and his sister both crazy? I looked at Beulah. She 
had turned her gaze in the direction of the tree tops. 

“I hope you are not such benighted pagan,” he 
went on, “as to deny the resurrection. For if, in this 
— 91 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


particular enterprise, the dead are not raised, assur- 
edly my preaching is vain and your hopes of a divi- 
dend are vain.” 

‘‘Mr. Gilbert,” I said soothingly, “if I were you I 
would not talk any more just now. I am sure you 
feel like lying down — it is very hot. In fact, I do not 
feel well myself.” 

He stared at me for a moment in a way that made 
me feel uneasy. This was the only time in my experi- 
ence of him when he appeared to be, to use a pugilis- 
tic phrase, “knocked out.” Beulah took the trouble 
to set us right. 

“The man thinks you are crazy,” she said, in her 
deepest tones, “and no wonder. I believe I know what 
you mean, if Mr. Carmichael does not. You mean 
that after young Mr. Lindsay is buried, he must be 
resurrected — a la Jerry Cruncher.” 

I hardly know which was the more shocking, the 
explanation or the cold, matter-of-fact way in which 
it was made. 

“Exactly,” said Gilbert, “and to prevent any further 
misunderstanding, I will explain more fully my plan, 
at least in its general outlines.” 

He took from an inside pocket of his coat an old, 
morocco-covered pocket-book. From this he took a 
newspaper clipping which he handed to me. 

“Read it aloud,” he said. 


— 92 — 


THE PLOT. 


What I read, amounted to this in substance: At 
a sale of unclaimed baggage, in a certain Eastern 
city, a man bought a trunk on the “sight-unseen” prin- 
ciple. There was a corpse inside the trunk. Another 
clipping, taken from a paper of later date, related how 
the dead man’s friends were able to identify his body 
by reading the description of it in the newspapers. 

“I always keep a warm corner in my heart,” he 
said, “for the enterprising journalists. They have sug- 
gested a number of useful things to me. As soon as 
I had read this article — over a year ago — it seemed to 
me it ought to be preserved and studied. But I stud- 
ied to no purpose until I discovered you, and then I 
began to see my way. For if this man dies — and he 
will die — there is nothing to hinder us from getting 
possession of his body. It will be easy to ship it some- 
where and let it wait till the time comes when, accord- 
ing to law, it can be sold as unclaimed freight. If we 
send it to some large city, our friends, the newspaper 
fellows, will work the sensation for all it is worth, and 
the bigger the sensation, the better it will be for 
our scheme. We see it in the papers and recognize, 
from the description, our dear brother Samuel, or Wil- 
liam, who left home suddenly and mysteriously last 
year. We come on, see the body and, sure enough, 
it’s Sam, or Bill.” 


— 93 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


“Yes,” I said, “but why this particular corpse? 
Why not any other dead body?” 

“Bless my life, man, what is the matter with you? 
It should be plain enough. We will identify the 
corpse as you. And we will produce the insurance 
papers and collect the money as your heirs. Making 
a liberal allowance for expenses, we should make a big 
thing of it.” 

I sat for awhile dumbfounded. The audacity of the 
scheme had almost taken away my breath. My throat 
felt hot and dry and I had to moisten my lips with 
my tongue before I could make any reply. 

“But that — that sort of thing is — ” 

“Swindling? Yes. In this world the people, the 
good, as well as the bad, have large magazines full 
of hard, hot, strong, ugly words to fire at sinful men 
like us.” 

He got up from his chair and stood by my side, 
placing his hand on my shoulder; at the same time 
Beulah got up and stood by one of the rough posts 
of the verandah, resting her cheek against the wood. 
This action on her part, trivial as it then seemed, I 
now interpret in the light of my subsequent experi- 
ence of her and her brother. In some ways she was 
not overly squeamish, but I verily believe this move- 
ment was, on her part, an involuntary tribute to the 
weakness of her sex — a sort of womanly shrinking 
— 94 — 


THE PLOT. 


from what she feared might happen. Yet Gilbert’s 
touch was almost a caress, and his voice, when he 
spoke again, was very soft. 

“Swindling? Yes, that is what they call it. But 
when we remember the road we have both traveled in 
this life — the road we have traveled apart, no less than 
the one we have come together, shall we be turned 
aside from an enterprise of great pith and moment 
because of a hard word more or less. Undoubtedly 
it is swindling. What then?” 

“What then!” I exclaimed. “What then? Do you 
ask? Why, then the felon’s dock, the state’s prison, 
and the unspeakable livery of shame!” 

“Ah yes, to be sure. The felon’s dock, and the 
state’s prison. But as matters now stand, dear friend, 
are you quite clear of the felon’s dock and — all the 
rest? Consider! .The world’s stock of hard words 
is not exhausted when it has said ‘swindler.’ For ex- 
ample, when a man has tried to lift a jack-pot in an 
irregular manner — why, your deceased friend, the 
mayor of Gopher City, had more hard words for that 
one little mistake than I would care to quote, if I could 
remember them all, even if there were no lady present. 
‘Cheat’ and ‘blackleg’ will serve for specimens. And 
whenever a gentleman, pursuing fortune in anirregu- 
lar manner — in the manner indicated by the words 
‘cheat’ and ‘blackleg’ — finds it convenient to insert 
— 95 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


the point of a bowie knife just above the clavicle of 
another gentleman — in the other gentleman’s own 
house, and at his own table, — they have an ugly word 
for that — O such an ugly word! They call it — what 
do they call it? Felon’s dock! State’s prison! Liv- 
ery of Shame! Why, dear friend, a man who amuses 
himself in that fashion might well accept the state’s 
prison and the livery of shame as a most blessed com- 
promise with retribution.” 

He went back to his chair and stood, with his hand 
on the back of it, regarding me with a smile that 
Satan might envy. 

“Swindling, eh? My young friend, while we are 
together let us not play the hypocrite with one an- 
other. At least, do not you try to play the hypocrite 
with me. I am not mistaken in you. I have studied 
you attentively. Except that you are a little more of a 
hypocrite, a little more cold-hearted than I, there is 
not much to choose between us from a moral stand- 
point. The day when I reached this conclusion was a 
lucky day for you, a day to be marked with a white 
stone. But for that most opportune discovery, you 
would have dangled at a rope’s end in Gopher City, 
or the wolves would have eaten you in the Kingdom. 
My dear friend, may I not hope that you will join me 
in this little enterprise? Surely you will not disappoint 
me in this matter. After all, it will only be a spoiling 
— 96 — 


THE PLOT. 


of the Philistines. Only a bloated corporation or so 
will be the worse, if we succeed.” 

Neither in the matter of this speech nor in the man- 
ner of its delivery was there the least suggestion of 
any unpleasant consequences if I refused. Yet Beu- 
lah left the porch and went and leaned over the fence. 
Many times since that day I have thanked heaven be- 
cause it has gifted me with such ready presence of 
mind. As by a flash of lightning, I saw the awful pit 
I had dug for my own feet. I had placed myself in the 
hands of this unscrupulous villain. I .was a lost man 
if I did not do as he wished. 

‘'1 am with you,” I said, with seeming heartiness. 
“That last remark about those vampires, the insurance 
companies, has placed the matter in a new light. If 
it had been directed against private persons I should 
have refused your proposal at any cost.” 


-97 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


CHAPTER VI. 

JANEVILLE. 

The words had hardly left my lips when a thought, 
an awful thought, occurred to me, almost freezing the 
blood in my veins. I had been so interested in the 
unfolding of Gilbert’s plans that I had forgotten, for a 
moment, his astonishing prediction about young Lind- 
say. How could he know when the man would die? 
Was it possible that his plan included the murder of 
that young man? I sunk back in my chair almost 
overcome by my feelings. 

'"Gilbert,” I said, "for heaven’s sake — . How can 
3^011 — how do you know — ” 

"About young Lindsay? Yes, I ought to have ex- 
plained that before. Our little drama without the ne- 
cessary corpse would be like Hamlet with Hamlet 
omitted. How very forgetful I am! I might know, 
of course, that this would be a great point with a man 
who does not war on private persons, a man, more- 
over, who is naturally tender of human life. By the 
way, have you ever lost any sleep about that man 
whom we left lying, with a broken leg, under his 
horse at the gate of the Kingdom? You may remem- 
ber that, when we left him, he had the cheerful pros- 
— 98 — 


JANEVILLE. 


pect of being trampled to death by his friends. I con- 
fess, his sad plight is remembered by me now for the 
first time since that day, but I suppose it has worried 
you a good deal. You have never mentioned it, but 
it must have worried you — unless it has been over- 
looked in the press of more important matters.’’ 

Cruel and unjust, in this as in all things. True, I 
had not wasted any vain regrets upon the evil men 
who might have hurt one another in trying to hurt 
me. But I was not then as I am now. Now I can 
pity; now I can forgive; now I can pray for all who 
have despitefully used me; then I was in the gall of 
bitterness. However, my ready presence of mind 
stood me in gooA stead, even under the pain of that 
bitter gibe. I laughed, and told him to get on with his 
explanation. 

“It is very simple,” he said. ‘T have it from sure 
authority that Mr. Lindsay has heart disease which 
will surely carry him off in six months, or in less 
time.” 

I do not know whether Gilbert believed this or not. 
I have conversed with medical gentlemen who would 
say of this or that person afflicted with disease of the 
heart, that he might die within a few months; but I 
have never known any physician who would ~fix a 
definite date for death in such cases. Honestly, I dis- 

— 99 — 


L.if C. 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


trusted Gilbert’s intentions and my mind was full of 
sad forebodings. 

No doubt, the perfect frankness with which I have 
related these things will be misunderstood by some; 
and no doubt, they will be misrepresented by others. 
Some will say that it was my duty to rise up, in the 
strength of my manhood, defy Gilbert, and bid him 
do his worst. To them I reply that I was young and 
that life was sweet to me. This bad man had only 
to lift his finger to subject me to an ignominious prose- 
cution for murder — a prosecution which I had to ad- 
mit would be equivalent to conviction. And that was 
not all: I felt then, and I am sure now, that if I had 
refused, I should never have seen the light of another 
day. 

They went away, after a while, and left me there 
alone on the verandah. I watched the night fall over 
those gloomy woods. I heard the owls hoot down by 
the river. Tree frogs began to croak, and bats were 
flitting overhead. If I were killed, my corpse, bur- 
ied somewhere in the gloomy depths of that forest, 
might well lie there undiscovered until the judgment 
day. Surely a more dismal and uninviting last rest- 
ing-place could not be found. I shuddered at the 
thought, rose, and went into the house. 

Even Robinson Crusoe in his island found, in the 


— 100 


JANEVILLE. 


midst of his troubles, many good things for which to 
thank heaven. So I, led as a lamb to the slaughter, 
coerced into a scheme from which my whole soul re- 
volted, in the clutches of one of the most hardened 
and remorseless of villains, found cause for thankful- 
ness in this darkest period of my life. It was a com- 
fort to know that if any loss to anybody should result 
from our enterprise, it must fall upon a soulless cor- 
poration and not upon any private persons. If our 
success had meant loss to any innocent, private per- 
son, to the amount of one penny, I would have refused 
to go into the business, even at the risk of my liberty 
or my life; but I have never seen the day when I have 
been, willing to risk my life for the benefit of an in- 
surance company. I have thought of setting forth here 
the essential difference, morally speaking, between a 
conspiracy to rob a .corporation and one to despoil an 
individual; and with this end in view I meant to write 
an exhaustive treatise on the subject. But the subject 
is too lengthy to embody in this book. It would form 
a valuable addition to every lawyer’s bookcase, for it 
would cover the whole field and establish the correct 
principles of ethics in a most convincing and conclu- 
sive manner. 

We arranged to leave that neighborhood ar once. 
For various reasons we wished to retain possession of 


— 101 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


the house, and, fortunately, Gilbert had a lease for 
a term of years. He undertook to satisfy the land- 
lord as to our reasons for going away. We took 
nothing with us except necessary wearing apparel. 
Beulah went in the mail wagon to Schneidervale, 
whence she went by rail to Kansas City. We gave the 
dog to a neighbor, and Gilbert and I rode the horses 
as far as Independence, where we sold them. 

At Kansas City matters worked smoothly enough. 
I passed the physical examination easily — was, in fact, 
recommended by the examining physician as an extra 
good “risk.” I shall not state the exact amount of 
the insurance; it was well up in the thousands. When 
all things were arranged to our liking we left Kansas 
City for St. Joseph. After spending a few days in St. 
Joseph, we decided to go and live in Janeville, a 
charming little village not far from the Iowa line. It 
was Gilbert’s theory that when a man desires to hide, 
he ought to go to a large city; but when he wishes to 
be known to a great many people in a very short 
time, he ought to go to a village of about five hun- 
dred people, like Janeville. As there were many other 
villages equally available within fifty miles of St. 
Joseph, the thing which finally determined the selec- 
tion of Janeville was an advertisement, in a daily news- 
paper, of a hotel to rent, ready furnished, in that vil- 
lage. 


— 102 — 


JANEVILLE. 


^‘Let us go into the hotel business,” said Gilbert, 
after reading the advertisement to me. ‘It will be the 
very thing. I shall be landlord, Beulah will be land- 
lady, you shall be clerk. As your name, in the insur- 
ance policies, is George William Ward, my name will 
be Charles Henry Ward, and Beulah will be our sister. 
Miss Beulah Ward. The Ward family, in short — two 
bachelor brothers and a maiden sister.” 

We readily secured the lease of the house. Gilbert 
played the part of landlord to the entire satisfaction of 
his guests, and, I may add, to his own. The little, 
old, wooden hotel had never been so popular before. 
I dare say it has never been so popular since. For as 
Gilbert cared only to make running expenses, he was 
willing to spend what might have been his profits on 
the table. And so the “Palace Hotel” became, to 
the travel worn “drummer,” as the shadow of a great 
rock in a weary lacid. 

Other good fortune awaited us in Janeville. There 
was a sort of down-at-the-heel printing office where a 
hungry-looking, sad-eyed printer toiled, week after 
week, to produce a newspaper called “The Janeville 
Banner.” I made a bargain with this discouraged in- 
dividual in virtue of which I became lessee and man- 
ager, while he became foreman, compositor and press- 
man. 

It was a very good arrangement for all concerned. 

— 103 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


For me, because I quickly achieved honorable distinc- 
tion in that part of the world as editor of the bright- 
est little country paper in the state. There was snap, 
and sparkle, and vim in the local news columns, while 
my heavy editorials on the leading topics of the time 
made people open their eyes. Over and over again, 
such competent judges as the postmaster, the prin- 
cipal of the school. Dr. Lantz, the village physician, 
and the two pastors of the local churches, assured me 
they read nothing better than my editorials in the 
journals of St. Louis or other large cities. 

All this served our purpose exactly, because it wid- 
ened the circle of my acquaintance as nothing else 
could have done. The farmers for miles around all 
knew me and accosted me familiarly as “Georgie.” 
By the end of the second week I felt perfectly free to 
mention any business man in the place, in my local 
columns, by his first name. This was good for the 
printer also, as it increased the value of his property 
about one hundred per cent. One very pleasant fea- 
ture of it all was that I actually cleared a little some- 
thing over and above expenses. No mammon wor- 
shipper am I, as already hinted, but I am not so im- 
moral, I trust, as not to perceive the sinfulness of use- 
less waste of money. A happy, peaceful life it was, 
but even here I was not to escape the slings and ar- 
rows of outrageous fortune. 

— 104 — 


JANEVILLE. 


The change from the moral atmosphere of Gopher 
City to the moral atmosphere of Janeville could not 
but be very refreshing to a man of culture. It was 
curious to note the points in which the one commun- 
ity differed from the other. In Gopher City there were 
two chief places of public resort, the “Rock Crystal” 
saloon and the “Morning Light” cafe ; while the popu- 
lation might be divided into three classes: those who 
patronized the “Rock Crystal,” those who patronized 
the “Morning Light,” those who patronized both in- 
differently. In Janeville the two chief places of public 
resort were the Methodist church, and the Baptist 
church; and here, too, the people might be divided into 
three tolerably distinct classes: the Methodists, Bap- 
tists, and the people who belonged to no church, but 
acknowledged “leanings” toward one or the other of 
the denominations above mentioned. In Janeville 
such an institution as the Rock Crystal saloon would 
have been viewed with horror and aversion; and any 
man so lost to all sense of religion and morality as to 
patronize such an institution would have been socially 
ostracised. The two pastors were on very good terms 
with each other; and, while there was undoubtedly a 
mild sort of rivalry between the two denominations, it 
seldom resulted in anything unseemly. When one 
minister addressed the other as “brother,” we under- 
stood that it was done in perfect sincerity, although 


— 105 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


there was, of course, always a very mild, but manifest 
reservation of manner, intended to signify to all be- 
holders that brotherly recognition must not be re- 
garded as a compromise with error. 

In the theological discussions which arose some- 
times between members of the two flocks, I, as was to 
be expected, took no part, but Gilbert was soon recog- 
nized as the champion of “believers’ baptism,” “close 
communion,” and “final perseverance.” He was 
therefore in high favor with the Baptists, especially as 
the other party had no champion, among its lay mem- 
bers, of equal ability. Privately, Gilbert informed me 
that the Baptist minister was himself little better than 
a heretic, being a “missionary,” while Gilbert en- 
dorsed the “primitive” or, as is vulgarly called, the 
“hardshell” contention. These things are mentioned 
that the reader may perceive how great was the 
change, in moral environment, from Gopher City to 
Janeville. 

I made it a point to attend the services of both con- 
gregations with judicious impartiality. At the M. E. 
Sunday school I sometimes taught the young women’s 
Bible class; at the Baptist church I frequently led the 
singing, having a very good tenor voice. It was 
therefore quite natural that many good people in each 
congregation should manifest an interest in the ques- 


— 106 — 


JANEVILLE. 


tion of my salvation — an interest for which I was, and 
am, sufficiently grateful. 

I think it a remarkable instance of the mysterious 
way in which the affairs of this world are ordered, 
that while one great sorrow of my life is clearly trace- 
able to my association with bad men in Gopher City, 
another great sorrow is traceable to my association 
with good people in Janeville. We had not been 
there long when the two congregations, moved by an 
earnest desire for the salvation of souls, decided to 
unite in what is known as a ''protracted meeting.” To 
that end, they secured the services of a very able re- 
vivalist. These meetings were carefully advertised, by 
posters and by notices in the newspapers of the county, 
so that from the first the audiences were very great. A 
large tent was procured and fitted up for the accom- 
modation of the people, since no church in the town 
would hold them all*. 

I have dwelt in this vale of tears many years, and 
am not, I venture to assert, without experience of men 
and events ; but I do not hesitate to say that this meet- 
ing stands out in my memory as the most remarkable 
event of my life; and the revivalist was to me one of 
the most remarkable men. A gifted man certainly, a 
godly man I earnestly believe. Yet there were-times 
when, in the pulpit, he allowed himself to approach 
so close to the line which separates decent and rever- 


— 107 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


ent language from irreverent and indecent language, 
that I almost held my breath for terror. Nevertheless, 
he steered himself with such admirable coolness and 
dexterity among these verbal reefs and shoals that I 
was soon compelled to admit my fears on his account 
were vain. I soon quit worrying about the preacher 
and began to worry about myself. 

Somehow — I do not know how or where — I had got 
the idea, in my boyhood, that the mate of a steamboat 
is absolutely above and beyond competition in the use 
of violent and abusive words. While I should be 
sorry to undervalue any talent on the possession of 
which any man may pride himself, I am free to assert 
my belief that no steamboat mate that ever lived, 
from the infancy of steamboating until now, was ever 
worthy to hold a candle to this gifted revivalist, in the 
matter of strong language. To me, it seemed that he 
had broken into Satan’s armory, taking therefrom 
Satan’s choicest weapons, which he was now using, 
with terrific effect, against their original owner and 
his minions. He was also a witty man, with a wit 
which other less gifted men have in vain sought to 
borrow. It resembled nothing in nature so much as 
the jagged lightning, flashing and quivering upon the 
breast of the storm cloud; and it was the kind of 
lightning that strikes — the kind that seldom has occa- 
sion to strike twice in the same place. I was about to 
--108 — 


JANEVILLE. 


compare him with Jupiter, only it is impossible to 
imagine Jupiter wearing a black coat and a white 
string-tie. Also, I feel quite sure, the licentious, hen- 
pecked, old humbug, who was called ‘‘Sire of gods 
and men,’’ never employed his thunderbolts with such 
fiice judgment, such godlike impartiality, such exquis- 
ite marksmanship, as this earnest and fearless man 
who conducted the Janeville meeting. 

Where and how did he obtain such an intimate ac- 
quaintance with the sinful, unregenerate heart of man? 
Whence did he procure that accurate catalogue of 
evil deeds men do under the heavens? How did he 
come to know so well all the underlying, evil motives 
which are the springs of wicked action? His testi- 
mony against sin did not impress the hearer as hear- 
say evidence; his judgment of vice did not appear to 
be the crude opinion of a mere novice; rather it was 
the ripe conviction of the expert. Yet, how could he 
have experimental knowledge of the vices he described 
with such accuracy of drawing, such minuteness of 
detail, such wealth of color? For he had spent twenty- 
three years in the ministry of his church and was, at 
this time, no more than forty-three years old. When 
I discussed the matter with Gilbert he said it was 
genius. I think it was inspiration. 

The first to feel the force and effect of his thunder- 
bolts were the weak-kneed, cowardly, cold-hearted 
— 109 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


professors of religion. In a little while all these were 
beating their breasts and calling for mercy. Then the 
preacher turned his guns upon the sinners, who went 
down before him like grass before the mower’s scythe. 

It may be remembered how, on a certain occasion of 
great peril, the words, '‘Except ye repent ye shall all 
likewise perish,” had been borne in on me. These 
words began to haunt me under the preaching of the 
revivalist. They rang in my ears, and sometimes they 
appeared before me in letters of fire. By the lurid 
light of the preacher’s forensic bombardment. I per- 
ceived how close I stood to the “slippery steps that 
lead to the opaque profundity of damnation.” Beyond 
a doubt, hell gaped for me. Night after night I went 
to the “anxious-seat,” where godly men and women 
prayed for me. Yet I could not obtain what I sought 
— and right well I knew the reason why. There were 
times when I looked over the audience and saw Gil- 
bert’s cold eyes fastened upon me; and the look in- 
variably sent a chill to the marrow of my bones. It 
was understood that anybody in the audience might 
come forward and exhort the “mourners,” or pray for 
them, and one night, after I had gone up there for 
perhaps the fifth time, Gilbert came, with characteris- 
tic audacity, kneeled by my side, and putting one arm 
about my neck whispered into my ear: 

“It is the golden wedge of Achan, my dear brother 

— no — 


JANEVILLE. 


— and the Babylonish garment — hidden in your tent. 
Unless you discover these things you pray in vain. 
Salvation there is none for you, until you let these 
dear, good people know all about your career at 
Gopher City and the reasons why you are bearing 
the name of George William Ward, instead of Michael 
Carmichael. It is no use to approach God with a lie 
on your lips — or in your life. The road to heaven, for 
you, is by way of the hangman’s noose, or the peniten- 
tiary. It is a very simple issue. Go on as you are 
and be damned; or confess and be saved — and hanged. 
Choose you this day whom you will serve!” 

I believe I fainted under the agony of that cruel 
speech, for I was conscious of nothing more, until the 
movements of people leaving the tent aroused me. I 
got up and staggered down the aisle — where I met — 
an angel. 

I have no idea of being profane. I am perfectly 
sincere in describing her as an angel — an angel in hu- 
man form, but an angel nevertheless. 

How can I make any one who did not know her 
understand what manner of woman she was, how 
sweet, how good and true, how beautiful in mind and 
person. Yet I will try to describe her. I put down 
my pen, lean back in my chair, close my eyesT and 
she comes back to me. I think I could be content to 


111 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


keep my eyes closed forever if she would remain 

Alas! she will not. 

She had hazel eyes. Her hair was a luxuriant 
brown. Her form was slender — rather too girlish, some 
people said. Once, when she stood by my side, (I am 
five feet ten inches in height), I observed that her 
head came exactly to the level of my shoulder. I re- 
member it well, because at the time I was sorely 
tempted to bend over and kiss one of those brown 
tresses; it would have been so easy — if I had dared. 
Her brows were arched — not too heavy — a trifle 
darker than her hair. Her nose was straight, with 
delicate nostrils. There was never at any time much 
color in her cheeks, but her skin was very clear — 
and soft — and white. Her mouth — I dislike to use 
that over-worked phrase, “cupid’s bow,” in describing 
her mouth; but that would be the right phrase cer- 
tainly. A most sensitive, delicate, beautiful, rosy 
mouth. Her teeth were white and small, and even. — 
While I write these words a blizzard is howling out- 
side, and it is nearly midnight. I would walk ten 
miles, through a worse storm, to win one smile from 
that sweet face. To see her smile was like seeing 
the sunlight suddenly flash out over a crystal lake just 
kissed by a summer zephyr. There was a dimple in 
her chin, but the chin itself may have been a trifle — 
just a trifle — too firm. Some phrenologists might call 


— 112 — 


JANEVILLE. 


it an obstinate chin. On that summer evening she 
wore a very simple white dress with some honeysuckle 
blossoms pinned to the bosom of it. 

Have I mentioned her name? I think not. She 
was Judith Wymore, daughter of the Baptist minister. 
I would have passed her at the door of the tent, but 
she detained me by a touch of her hand on my arm. 

“Mr. Ward,’’ she said, “you are in much trouble. 
Will you not come and speak with my father?” 

As her father had left the place, I went home with 
her. A summer night it was, with a full moon shining 
in a cloudless sky. We passed a yard where fragrant 
honeysuckles were in bloom; we passed a garden 
where a tall hollyhock, bending over the palings, 
touched her hair; we crossed a bridge over the little 
stream which flows through the village (there was a 
white square of moonlight at the center of a pool, in a 
frame of ebony, where shadows of banks and bushes 
lay dark on the margins of the stream); we passed by 
a meadow-lot where cattle were lying down in the 
clover — a bell worn by one of them tinkled drowsily; 
we went up the slope of a little knoll, which was cov- 
ered with blue-grass, to a white cottage with black 
locust trees in the yard; behind the cottage was an 
orchard. — ^Why do I remember all this? I took no 
note of these things at the time, yet I must be old — 


— 113 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 

old — old, when my memory loses one trivial detail of 
that walk. 

We entered the house, and her father greeted me 
cordially. He was a tall old man, with a strong, hand- 
some, intellectual face. He was a man of learning 
and was deservedly beloved by the people of the town. 
He was a Virginian by birth ; both he and his daughter 
spoke with the soft intonation of the Southerners. 
Warned by the failures of many distinguished literary 
people who have tried to give, on paper, some idea of 
that accent and intonation, I shall not attempt it here. 
There is no device known to the printer’s art that can 
accomplish that result. When the intelligent com- 
positor can evolve from his case the sounds of harp- 
strings, the sighings of summer winds, the cooing of 
doves, and the songs of thrushes, it will be then in 
order for some writer to attempt to represent by 
phonetic device the speech of the Southern lady. But 
I wander from the subject. 

I spent an hour or two with Mr. Wymore, but, as I 
could not well confide my secret to him, it was little 
help he could give me. He did what he could — what 
is usual in such cases — he read the Bible to me, prayed 
for me, and exhorted me to throw myself unreservedly 
on the mercy of God. Unreservedly! There was the 
rub! The golden wedge and the Babylonish garment 
were hidden in my tent, and well I knew that, until 


— 114 — 


JANEVILLE. 


the hiding-place of the accursed thing should be dis- 
closed, the preacher could do me little good. How 
could I make Achan’s confession without accepting 
Achan’s fate? 

It was late when I left Mr. Wymore, but, late as it 
was, I found Gilbert waiting for me. There was a 
ring in his voice which I did not like when he accosted 
me almost before I crossed the threshold. 

“How about Achan, young man? Is he to be de- 
livered over to the wrath of Israel? Or will he hold 
on to the spoil a little longer? As a person slightly in- 
terested, I wish to know. I need not remind you, of 
course, that a disguised body” — he emphasized the 
word disguised — “ is not absolutely essential to the 
cashing of these policies. A genuine corpse — but we 
will not pursue the subject.” 

I sat down in a chair and stared at him helplessly. 
He crossed his hands behind his back and began to 
walk the floor. In a little while he began to sing or 
rather to chant in a low voice: 

“ ^Man must die. One dies by day. 

And near him moans his mother; 

They dig his grave, and tread it down, 

And go from it full loth. 

And one dies about the midnight. 

And the wind moans, and no other; 

And the snow gives him a burial — 

And God loves them both.’ ” 

— 115 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


Suddenly he paused in his walk and came and stood 
before me with folded arms, and said : 

“What of Achan?’’ 

“It is useless to talk,” I said. “I cannot face the 
consequences of a confession. You must know that 
very well.” 


— 116 — 


JUDITHS 


CHAPTER VIL 

JUDITH. 

“Ah,” he said, “there spoke the good, hard, worldly 
wisdom which I have so often admired in — in my 
dear brother George. Glad indeed to observe that no 
amount of spiritual excitement can overcome in you 
that keen perception of self-interest which has here- 
tofore been so notable a trait in your character. Cer- 
tainly, there is nothing else to do. By the way, have 
you considered what a commotion in Janeville a true 
and circumstantial account of your late doings would 
create? My, what a brand plucked from the burning! 
And how hard for those godly people to flourish that 
brand without burning their fingers. It must be a 
thrilling moment in the life of a church when a man 
becomes a candidate for church membership, being 
also, at the same time, a candidate for the peniten- 
tiary. Have you asked yourself which of these two 
churches would offer the most inducements to get 
you to join — the other? I ought to inform you that 
I saw a pair of very nice, dark eyes looking at you Jo- 
night — very tender eyes, with a very tender look in 
them. What would be their expression, I wonder, if 


— 117 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


they saw you in custody of the sheriff, adorned with a 
pair of hand-cuffs?’’ 

I had now, under the cruel pressure put upon me 
by this heartless rascal, to take another step down the 
ladder which descends into the bottomless pit. Gil- 
bert declared that I had made myself conspicuous in 
the community, by the overwhelming nature of my 
''conviction” and by the stubbornness with which my 
hardened, obdurate heart resisted the good influences 
which had been brought to bear upon it. If I should 
give up the fight at that point, it would not only be a 
cause of pain and disappointment to the good people, 
but it would make them curious as to the probable 
cause of my spiritual troubles. Curiosity might lead 
to inquiry, and inquiry — well it was always to be 
avoided by persons situated as we were. Hence he 
urged me to "make a profession” and join one of the 
churches, because it was absolutely essential that we 
should be under no suspicion while in Janeville. 

As a practical man I could not fail to perceive the 
wisdom, as the world understands the word, of doing 
as he suggested. And I did it, but this heart alone 
knows the agony of shame and humiliation it suffered 
in that supreme act of deceit. I was^ in fact, received 
into the Baptist congregation according to their prac- 
tice in such matters. I gave preference to this church, 
not so much on theological grounds, as because 
— 118 — 


JUDITH. 


I felt grateful to Judith and her father. The church 
people were, of course, not slow to avail themselves of 
such talents as I possessed. I quickly found an abun- 
dant entrance into all the activities of the congrega- 
tional life. This necessarily brought me into most in- 
timate relations with the minister and his family, 
Judith included. 

If I could properly tell this story without any fur- 
ther mention of this lady, I would surely do so, for the 
subject is too painful to be discussed with any degree 
of satisfaction to me, under any circumstances. With- 
out further circumlocution I will say that I fell in love 
with her. Which is the simple and obvious explana- 
tion of the fact that I now allowed myself to enter a 
sort of fool’s paradise, closing my eyes deliberately to 
all that was painful and perilous in my position. I 
sought her presence as often as I could, because there 
I found peace. In her society the wicked scheme in 
which I was involved seemed to slip away into the 
realm of dreams — a hideous nightmare which the sun- 
shine of her presence banished from my memory. 
With her near me, I seemed to be a better man, with 
nobler aims and higher notions of life and duty. In 
spite of the ‘^golden wedge” I felt a peace in her so- 
ciety which I almost hoped might be the peace that 
passeth understanding. 

Summer ended, September passed, October came 


— 119 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


with its wonted pomp and splendor. One evening I 
walked home with Judith from the prayer meeting. 
Again a bright moon shone from a cloudless sky, but 
there were no hollyhocks in bloom — only painted 
leaves on the trees, and golden-rod by the wayside. 
Once more we came upon the bridge which spanned 
the little stream. Near the middle of it we paused and 
looked down at the shadowy waters speeding by. 
Again, as on the first night when we crossed the 
bridge, the moonlight lay in a bright square upon the 
center of the pool — the pool where her father had 
recently baptized me. From the trees which overhung 
the water, leaves fell silently from time to time, and the 
current bore them away. 

^'It is very beautiful,” I said; “the world is very, 
very beautiful. If only there were no sorrow in it. As 
I look at the earth, bathed in this tender light, at the 
bright stars looking calmly down upon it, at the tran- 
quil sky bending over it, sorrow is almost unbelievable. 
Yet it is here. Possibly there is not a square inch of 
this landscape where something does not sufifer and 
die; certainly, there is not a square mile of the part 
visible to us where some human heart is not suffering 
or bleeding. It seems to me that this smiling tran- 
quility of the heavens, as they bend over a blood- 
drenched, pain-racked world, almost justifies the old 


— 120 — 


JUDITH. 


heathen notion that the gods are heartless — indifferent 
as to what happens on earth.” 

Coming from me, this will be regarded as an ex- 
ceedingly sentimental speech, considering that I am 
essentially a practical man. Nevertheless, as I have 
mentioned before, I possess the poetical temperament 
which presupposes a keen sense of the beautiful in art 
and nature. Also, I should say, there must come mo- 
ments, one moment at least, in the life of the most 
practical man living, when he must become senti- 
mental, to a certain extent. 

“In this life,” she replied, “we see as through a 
glass, darkly; and perhaps the heathen you spoke 
about were over-hasty in criticising ‘the gods.’ Cer- 
tainly, it hardly becomes the human part of creation to 
whimper over the woes of a ‘blood-drenched, pain- 
racked world,’ since men have done so much to make 
it so and keep it so. If this earth is a hell, it is largely 
a hell of man’s making; and it rests with him, I think, 
to make a heaven of it when he will.” 

“Miss Wymore,” I said, “do you really believe that 
the evil men do in the world, and to the world, is alto- 
gether voluntary? Is not that a dangerous doctrine? 
Does it not savor a little of Arminianism to say that 
the world is bad because man wills it to be bad, and 
may be good when man wills it to be good? What 
becomes of the sovereignty — ” 


— 121 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


"‘Oh,” she interrupted, with a laugh, “I am no 
theologian — you must go to my father for that. Nor 
am I a logician, I am a woman. To me the readiness of 
the average man to unload his faults upon others — 
upon God sometimes — is rather pitiful. You know a 
woman must resent that — logic or no logic, theology 
or no theology — because one of woman’s earliest and 
most painful experiences was the rather sudden devel- 
opment of this essentially masculine trait — in the case 
of our father Adam.” 

“But is it not conceivable,” I said, “that a man 
might be so situated as to be compelled, by pressure 
which he cannot resist, to do things which he knows 
to be wicked in themselves — things from which, if left 
to himself, he would shrink with loathing? Is a man, 
so situated, to be greatly blamed? It seems to me 
he is rather to be pitied.” 

She turned and faced me. The light of the moon 
caused her face to look very pale. I thought she 
looked like a saint in some old picture. 

“Who is the man?” she asked. “Is he a myth or a 
reality?” 

The question was unexpected and, to a certain ex- 
tent, confusing, but I answered as promptly as I could : 

“Well, he is — let us say — not altogether a myth.” 

“Not altogether? Which means, I suppose, that he 
is part myth and part flesh and blood.” 

- 122 -- 


JUDITH. 


She smiled saucily as she said it. 

‘‘Ah/' I said, “you ought to be a lawyer. But let 
us assume, for the purposes of this discussion, that he 
is all flesh and blood.” 

“Is he a full grown man? Is he sane? Is he a man 
of any courage, moral or physical? Altogether, is he 
the sort of man who has a right to be abroad without 
a keeper?” 

“Yes,” I said, “he is sane, full grown, strong in mind 
and in body.” 

She stood with her side to the parapet, leaning her 
elbow upon it and resting her cheek in her open palm. 
She did not speak immediately. The saucy smile 
slowly faded out of her eyes, giving way to a pained 
expression. 

“I do not understand. Is it too much to ask you to 
explain how such a man comes to be in a position like 
that? He must do evil, you say, evil which his soul 
loathes? And he must do that, not because he wishes 
it, but because it is the will of another — or others? 
Yet, he is a sane man in good bodily health. I do 
not see how that is possible — but then I am only an 
inexperienced girl and am therefore ignorant of many 
things. Do you mind explaining further?” 

Did I mind explaining further! Did I min^ ex- 
plaining how I happened to have a hangman’s noose 
around my neck, and how a certain man named Gil- 
— 123 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


bert could lead me around whenever he chose, in 
whatever direction he wished me to go, by the simple 
process of tightening the noose! Did I mind explain- 
ing how this man had harnessed me in a cart and was 
driving me to perdition, using this hangman’s rope 
as a driving rein! Certainly we were getting upon 
dangerous ground, and I had to ask myself how my 
two confederates would enjoy this conversation, if they 
could hear it. The situation called for the utmost dis- 
cretion. 

“It is this way,” I said. “I had once a friend, a 
very dear friend — he is gone now, poor fellow. Well, 
this dear, good friend, in his lifetime, did a thing, in a 
moment of anger, under strong provocation — a thing 
which imperiled not only his life, but his good name. 
When I say he did this in a moment of anger, under 
extreme provocation, I state it mildly, because I do 
not want to prejudice you in his favor at this stage 
of my story. He escaped to another country, where 
he might have been safe but for the fact that one 
man, a hard-hearted, remorseless villain, knew of his 
fault and threatened to turn him over to the minions 
of the law — ” 

“Why do you say 'minions?’ ” she interrupted. “Are 
the people who enforce the law called minions?” 

“Just a form of speech, borrowed from novels, or 
from the stage, I suppose. I certainly mean no dis- 
— 124 — 


JUDITH, 


respect to the law and its myr — its agents. I am a 
lawyer myself. But this bad man, having it in his 
power to turn my friend over to the faithful guardians 
of society, used that power to compel his aid in a — - 
w’ell, to state it frankly, in a scheme to swindle some 
people out of a large sum of money.’’ 

“So that the only alternative for your friend was to 
suffer for his own crime or to make other people suf- 
fer? You are a church member, and a Bible reader, 
and you are what is called a trained reasoner. Do you 
seriously propose that as a debatable question?’ 

“It does not seem to be debatable — as you state it; 
but then you state it rather too bluntly. Also you do 
not state the whole issue; which is not surprising, be- 
cause you do not know the whole story.” 

“That is what comes of arguing with a woman,” 
she said lightly. “But since you have asked for my 
opinion, ought I not to know the whole story?” 

“Suppose, then, that the man was, before exposure 
was threatened, in a position of influence, a position 
where he could do much good, where he, in fact, did 
much good. Suppose, also, that exposure would not 
only destroy his personal influence, but must inevit- 
ably bring reproach upon a great and holy cause?” 

“What great and holy cause is that which can be 
injured, when a man who has committed one crime 
refuses to commit another? Your friend might have 


— 125 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


denounced the villain who was hounding him on to 
crime. He might have been brave enough to accept, 
frankly, the consequences of his own fault. A man 
who would do that would adorn any cause. To be 
burned at the stake is not the only way to be a martyr 
— and how can a good and holy cause be hurt because 
a man has chosen to suffer shame for righteousness’ 
sake? If your friend abhorred, as you say, the evil 
he was asked to do, that means that he suffered while 
doing it. It seems to me, the problem is very simple, 
after all. As I understand the case, it comes to this: 
shall a man suffer and do wrong, or shall he suffer and 
do right?” 

It was rather adroitly put, I must say. She was 
very opinionated, as most women are, but she cer- 
tainly had also considerable skill in arguing. She 
spoke these words very earnestly, yet not loudly, and 
in her zeal she had placed her hand lightly, uncon- 
sciously I think, upon my arm. She seemed more 
like a pictured saint than ever; and there was a pity- 
ing look on her face that made me catch my breath. 
Could it be that she suspected that I was the man in 
question? 

It was not quite by accident that the conversation 
had taken this turn. I had deliberately led up to it, 
with what skill the reader may judge, because I had 
inwardly sworn to win this woman if I could, hop- 
— 126 — 


JUDITH. 


ing against hope that I might retain her love, once I 
had won it. It was natural therefore I should 
be anxious to know how she might regard me, if by 
any accident she should become acquainted with re- 
cent events in my most unfortunate career. She was 
certainly the kind of woman to make sacrifices for 
the man she loved; and therefore I wished to confirm, 
if possible, a certain wild hope of mine that she might, 
in the event of our marriage, be persuaded that my 
compliance with Gilbert's plans was absolutely neces- 
sary to my safety. I loathed that scheme myself as 
heartily as she or any one could desire, but I was too 
young to die — and not prepared. I now concluded 
that she could never be entrusted with my secret, 
either before or after marriage. In this one thing 
she could never be a helpmeet to me. I continued 
the conversation, but rather for the purpose of keep- 
ing her with me a while longer, than for any other 
reason. 

“But suppose," I said, “there was a woman — a 
sweet, noble, true-hearted woman, who loved him and 
believed in him. What if his exposure should break 
her heart, or even destroy her love for him? What if 
this woman had so deep a hold upon his heart as to 
be the very guardian angel of his life? What i£- with- 
out her his life must fall to wreck and ruin? Con- 
sider also that the people against whom he was asked 
— 127 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


to conspire were not the sort of people over whom 
one grows sentimental. Suppose also that the loss 
of the money, though considerable to a private in- 
dividual, would not be particularly felt by the rich 
corporation which was, in fact, to be the victim of the 
conspiracy. I say again, the woman was essential to 
the man’s well being in every way — especially in a 
moral way. Should his soul weigh nothing in the 
scales of justice? Might it not very well outweigh the 
paltry dollars and the slight inconvenience their loss 
would occasion the owners — provided he himself re- 
fused to share the spoil?” 

As I read this little speech over, it seems to me to 
be quite as eloquent and forcible as anything I said 
that evening, but I have to confess it did not impress 
Judith in that way. 

should like to know that woman,” she said, “who 
was so mighty for some purposes, and so weak for 
others; who could be so benign in some respects and 
so malign in others; whose love might be so valuable 
to a man who was doing wrong and so useless to the 
same man if he should want to do right; whose heart 
could be so noble and true in the day of sunshine and 
so very, very fragile in the day of storm; whose influ- 
ence could be such a sure anchoring ground if the 
world smiled and so insecure if it frowned. Is it indis- 
creet to ask if the lady is dead also?” 

— 128 — 


JUDITH. 


I wisely ignored this last question, because this 
little outburst of scorn on her part gave me the clue 
I needed, for it revealed to me, very clearly, that here 
was a true and staunch comrade in adversity — for the 
man she loved. It was open to me now, or at any 
future time, assuming that she loved me, to confess 
my faults and throw myself upon her mercy. For a 
moment, the impulse was strong upon me to do so, 
but I had the good sense to perceive that this would 
be rather rash under the circumstances. I hoped that 
she loved me, but, as yet, she had not told me so. 
Moreover, there was no hurry — but I resolved to con- 
sider it seriously. 

“Miss Wymore,” I said earnestly, “do you mean to 
say that if you had loved a man, situated as my friend 
was, and that man, moved by a sense of duty toward 
God and society, had denounced the scoundrel who 
was trying to lead him deeper into crime, meekly and 
uncomplainingly accepting all consequences to him- 
self, even though his duty should lead him to the peni- 
tentiary or the gallows — would you — could you love 
him still?’’ 

“I had not meant to say what I might do; but, 
since you ask me, I will try to tell you as well as I 
can. As I said just now, I am a woman and there- 
fore — I add the therefore as a concession to the preju- 
dice of the sterner sex— therefore I am neither very 


— 129 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


logical, nor very theological — if you can pardon the 
frivolity of the remark. I have read, in a very old 
book, that to serve God and keep his commandments 
is the whole duty of man. A very concise moral creed, 
but it is mine. Very simple, but there are heroisms in 
it — the noblest heroisms possible for me to imagine. I 
suppose every girl has pictured in her mind the man 
whom she calls her hero. At least it has been so 
with me. My ideal is the man who serves God and 
keeps his commandments; and of course he is capable 
of all the heroisms, and sacrifices, and martyrdoms, 
that are implied in that precept. Now, you see, your 
question is answered. It answers itself when you ask 
me whether I could love my hero if, when he comes, 
he should be able to rise, in the face of the greatest 
distress and peril, to my very highest ideal of man- 
hood. I must not boast before I am tried, but — I 
think — I am sure, if he had courage enough to go to 
the scaffold, I should be proud to stand by his side in 
that supreme hour of his disgrace and — triumph. 

^‘You are a noble woman,” I said — I could not re- 
sist the impulse — ‘‘the noblest woman I know — and 
the sweetest. I beg your pardon. Miss Wymore, but 
— I think — you must have known long ago, that I 
loved you.” 

Perhaps she had seen it, but I hardly think she 
was prepared for the declaration at that moment. I 
— 130 — 



I < 


9 y 


YOU ARE A SWEET AND NOBLE WOMAN 


Page 130 , 



JUDITH. 


took advantatge of her confusion to tell her all that 
was in my heart concerning her. I am not without 
eloquence, I hope, and this was a theme to bring out 
whatever powers of speech I possessed. The story 
of my love was a true story, as I call heaven to wit- 
ness. I could see that she was not angry at my pre- 
sumption, but when I pressed her for an answer to 
my pleading, she said : 

“Did you tell me the name of your friend — your 
dead friend who was so unfortunate?’' 

“His name was Michael Carmichael,” I said. I had 
no time to consider my answer or I might not have 
been so imprudent. 

“Are you sure?” 

“As the Lord hears me!” I said. 

This is not a novel, but a history. It is not my pur- 
pose to give the reader a 

“ melting tale 

Of two true lovers in a dale.” 

The details of a love scene are all right in a novel, but 
I have never met, in real life, many men and women 
who were willing to rehearse, for the benefit of the 
general public, this one tender act in life’s drama. A 
low, sweet voice is an excellent thing in a woman, 
as some wise man has said ; and when a woman, con- 
fesses her love for a man, it is hardly ever in loud 


— 131 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


words. Therefore what she says is not designed for 
the edification or amusement of the public. 

At her father’s door we parted. I could tell what 
happened when she bade me good-night, but I will 
not. On my way home I paused once more on the 
bridge and looked down into the quiet water — and 
at the trees and the falling leaves. I uttered aloud, I 
hardly know why, the words of the Ancient Mariner: 

“O let me be awake, my God, 

Or let me sleep alway! 

Then and there I awoke. My beautiful dream fled; 
and it did not come back. For I had, in truth, delib- 
erately closed my eyes to much that was hideous and 
perilous in my position. There had been a moment 
when, if I had told the truth, I might still have won 
Judith’s love, for she was of a generous and loving 
nature. But how could I, before she had confessed the 
secret of her heart, while the question of whether she 
would accept or reject me hung in the balance, so to 
speak — how could I throw my evil past into the other 
scale? Now that I had let the opportunity pass; 
now that I had won her love; now that she be- 
lieved in me — now it was too late. Then the 
cruelty of it, even if I could go and confess, and 
still hold her true to me. I knew, better than she 
could know, that the betrayal of my secret would mean 
sure death to me. I had somehow persuaded myself 


132 — 


JUDITH. 


that I might go on with this present scheme, and that, 
once safely through it, I could marry Judith. I 
thought she need not know. But now my reason, so 
long dormant under the spell of my ardent love, awoke 
and demanded an answer to certain questions: 

How can a dead man marry, O fool? Is not the 
theory of your death an essential element in this 
worthy little enterprise? Are you not here, courting 
the acquaintance of all these people, so that, when 
you disappear, your absence may create a sensation in 
the community? Is it not an essential part of your 
plan that there may be a large number of these good 
people to identify your body, or the one supposed to 
be yours, in order that the whole affair may be as open 
and free from all suspicion as possible? How will you 
manage to be dead to all the world and alive only to 
Judith — unless you can make her your accomplice? 
You know her better than to hope that she will be- 
come your partner in crime. Perhaps, even now, she 
might marry you, if you should confess at once — being 
a woman in love. But Gilbert? And Beulah? And 
Gopher City? 

I crossed the bridge and went over among the trees 
where I threw myself down on a heap of leaves and 
groaned aloud in my anguish of spirits. I cannot 
describe the suffering of that hour. There were mo- 
ments when I thought of suicide and moments — I con- 
— 133 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 

fess it — when I thought of murder. Why not kill that 
devil incarnate and be safe? But then there was 
Beulah. I have no maudlin sentiment about me. The 
death of such a man as Gilbert can never, under any 
circumstances, be a calamity to society; but it would 
be worse than foolish to kill him and let her live. And 
how could I kill a woman? And how could I kill 
either with safety? In this world there is no uglier 
deed than homicide — even when justifiable. It is so 
hard to explain and so difficult to conceal. Moreover 
it was wrong. So I spurned the idea, not because it 
was dangerous, but because it is forbidden by the laws 
of God and man. I put away the thought and prayed; 
and as I prayed the tears came — I wept like a child. 

In the hotel office, when I returned, there was a 
light burning. I lay down upon a small cot, behind 
the counter of the waiting-room, and went to sleep, 
my face still wet with tears. 


— 134 — 


A DARK MOTIVE. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

A DARK MOTIVE. 

The ringing of the breakfast bell woke me. I was 
about to get up when I heard the voices of Gilbert 
and Beulah in conversation. They were in a small 
room that opened out of the office. At first I had no 
thought of listening to what they said, but I soon dis- 
covered that I was the subject of the conversation. In 
reply to some remark made by Gilbert, Beulah said: 

“What time did he come home?” 

And Gilbert replied: 

“I do not know. When I went to bed, at half past 
eleven he had not come. I believe he did not come 
at all.” 

“He is not in his room. I passed his door on my 
way downstairs. The door was open, and his bed 
had not been disturbed. He may have slept at the 
printing office.” 

“Nonsense. There is no bed at the printing office.” 

“A man in love does not care for such trifles as 
beds — so I have read. He might sleep on the office 
table.” 

“You think it a bad case, eh?” 

“So bad that it is time for us to take the matter in 


— 135 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


hand. Dear me, what a shrewd fellow you are — 
what a wonderfully shrewd fellow! But your fault 
as a spinner of spider’s webs is that you sometimes 
spin them too fine. A pretty stroke of policy, no 
doubt, to make a church member of your protege, 
but it seems to me you overlooked the chance that he 
might take to religion in earnest — and he came near 
doing so.” 

“Maybe. But do not forget that I was around all 
of the time; and remember also that I know my man.” 

“Very well. I advise you to continue to be around 
— the closer the better. He is infatuated with that 
girl. You give a good deal of attention to psycho- 
logical problems off and on. Let me ask if you have 
ever tried to calculate the combined effects of love 
and religion on the poetical and voluptuous tempera- 
ment of our dear brother George William?” 

“Poetical and voluptuous be hanged! Why, the man 
is as cold-hearted and selfish as Satan himself!” 

“Which is why, no doubt, you imagine he will be 
the very man to forego the gratification of his pas- 
sions out of regard for the interests of other people.” 

“I imagine no such thing — not for one moment. 
But we have it in our power, you see, to rein him in 
whenever we wish. What can he do?” 

• “He can bolt. It is not altogether a one-sided af- 
fair, that little romance. The girl is in love with him, 
— 136 — 


A DARK MOTIVE, 


let me tell you. I beg you to remember that our 
darling brother George is no fool. He will invent 
some pretext to satisfy her, and then — then, some fine 
morning, they will ‘come up missing.’ Then what be- 
comes of your fine investment?” 

“My word! I had not thought of that. You are a 
jewel, Beulah, a diamond of the first water! Have you 
considered what we ought to do?” 

“Yes, but we must go to the dining-room now. 
Come to my room after breakfast. I have a plan 
which is warranted to succeed.” 

As soon as they were gone, I got up and went out 
into the street. I walked about a little while and then 
re-entered the house, going directly to the dining- 
room. Gilbert hailed me cheerfully. 

“Hello, Georgy! Getting into bad habits, my boy! 
Not been in the lock-up, have you?” 

Some of the boarders laughed and one or two of 
them made facetious remarks on what they were 
pleased to call my “bad case.” While I could have 
dispensed with these witticisms very well, I was wise 
enough not to show my annoyance. I merely said I 
had been working late and had slept in the office 
rather than disturb the people at the hotel. 

“Rather late in the season for that sort of thing, my 
boy,” said Gilbert; “nights are too cool. Come home 
to bed next time, no matter what time it may be.” 

— 137 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


I hardly know how I got through the morning’s 
work. My mind was in a strange state of confusion. 
As soon as I could, by the liberal use of the shears, 
satisfy the printer’s demand for copy, I locked the 
door of my private office and sat down to think. 

“He can bolt.” These words of Beulah haunted 
me. Here perhaps was the idea I wanted — the clew 
which might lead me out of the labyrinth. Yes, my 
darling loved me — ^that much was certain; and since 
she loved me, she would at least hear with patience 
any proposal I might make. Beulah had suggested 
that I might be equal to the invention of a pretext for 
an elopement. I would not need a pretext, because 
the truth would be better than any fiction I could in- 
vent. I had only to tell her the facts, and let her see 
the peril in which I stood and, sooner or later, I 
could make her see the necessity of flying with me to 
Canada or Mexico — anywhere so that I might have 
peace and safety the rest of my life. “Give mxe ten 
days,” I said to myself, “and I will balk your scheme 
which is warranted to succeed. You shall learn how 
dangerous it is to push a brave enemy to the point of 
desperation. Only give me ten days.” 

There was a knock at my door. I opened it and 
admitted Gilbert. He sat down in the chair I offered 
him and said: 

“My dear brother, you are not looking well. Is 
— 138 — 


A DARK MOTIVE. 


there anything the matter You have hardly eaten 
anything for several days and this morning you barely 
touched your breakfast. Have you anything against 
the cook? Only say the word, and I will discharge 
her at once.” 

This speech must have sounded well to the printer, 
for whose ears it was doubtless intended, the door 
being now wide open. 

‘Tt is not the cook,” I said, ‘T am not well.” 

“Just as I feared. And here is Beulah complaining 
of poor health. I believe you have both been working 
too hard. What you need is an outing, and I have 
come to propose one for your joint benefit. It is only 
a few miles to the Iowa line, and Beulah has never 
been in Iowa. Have you? No? Think of that now! 
Never in Iowa! Beulah thinks it would be a shame 
not to go there as it is so near. It is only twenty-five 
miles to Pinktown, the county seat of Meadow county. 
So I have hired a good team, with a two-seated car- 
riage, to take us there this afternoon; we can come 
back to-morrow.” 

I suspected at once that this proposed trip to Iowa 
was, in some way, connected with Beulah’s infallible 
plan to separate me from Judith, but I could only 
stammer out some tame objection about the danger 
of leaving the hotel to run itself.” 


— 139 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


'‘Never mind the hotel,” he said. “I have arranged 
to leave it in good hands.” 

“But I cannot possibly leave the office,” I said. 
“To-morrow is press day, and — ” 

“Never mind the office. I have already spoken to 
the printer. He used to run it before you came to 
Janeville, and he cheerfully agrees to run it until you 
return. Besides,” he added in a low tone, “we must 
have some talk — about the scheme, you know; and 
this drive will insure the utmost privacy.” 

I saw that any further objections on my part could 
only have the effect of arousing his suspicions. 

It was the middle of the afternoon when we arrived 
at Pinktown. On the way Gilbert discussed the beau- 
ties of the autumn landscape — quoted poetry about 
the “Golden-rod,” and the “Aster in the wood,” and 
the “yellow Sunflower by the brook,” — ^but he never 
said a word in the way of consultation about our plans. 

We went to a hotel and engaged accommodations 
for the night. Beulah went immediately to her room, 
and Gilbert invited me to accompany him in a walk 
about the town. We went to the court-house square. 
The building stood in the midst of a beautiful grove 
of maples. The leaves were falling from the trees, but 
the weather was mild and it was pleasant in the open 
air. We sat down upon one of the benches in the 
yard and Gilbert began the conversation by saying: 

— 140 — 


A DARK MOTIVE. 


“I am sorry to say, Beulah is much dissatisfied — 
though, at the same time, I cannot blame her.” 

^‘Beulah,” I said, “Beulah is—” 

“Yes. Very much dissatisfied, poor child. You see, 
Beulah is an orphan and, although I am her brother, 
her very devoted brother, she — well, a brother is not 
— is not everything, you know.” 

“But I don’t see — ” 

“No, of course not. How should you? I didn’t see 
until she placed the matter before me in its true light; 
and that shows how short-sighted men are as com- 
pared with women. Beulah has called my attention 
to the fact that she has no sort of pecuniary interest 
in this enterprise — none whatever — not a cent. True, 
the policies are payable to the estate of George Wil- 
liam Ward. And that would be sufficient, in the event 
of your death, if we were actually your brother and 
sister, because Beulah could come in with me as your 
next of kin. But in the present deal we have no 
covenant with her. Not a word about her share. She 
has been overlooked — ignored, as she puts it. A great 
injustice, of course. Also a great blunder.” 

“But,” I said, “half the investment was mine. I 
understood that if we succeeded, half the profits would 
be mine, the other half yours. If you wish^to admit 
Beulah to one-half of your share I have no objection. 


— m — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


But surely she is not afraid her brother will wrong 
her/’ 

“Certainly not, but poor dear Beulah, woman-like, 
has views of her own. You must know that, in affairs 
of this kind, accidents are possible. I myself am not 
much afraid, but it is no use to deny that they do 
happen. They happen every day, somewhere. If we 
should be killed, or be sent to jail, or be hung, she 
would be quite alone, without a dollar in the world, 
with nobody to take care of her. It may even be 
worse. If things go wrong she might be arrested and 
sent to jail as our accomplice; she may even be con- 
victed of conspiracy to defraud. Think of that! And 
all this risk without a dollar to come to her — except 
what her brother might be disposed to give in charity! 
Outrageous!” 

“Am I to understand that she demands a third share 
of the proceeds?” 

“No, no — not at all. She is very reasonable. All 
in the world she asks is that you shall marry her. As 
your wife — ” 

I sprang to my feet. 

“Great God!” I exclaimed. “I’ll see you both in 
Sheol first!” 

Gilbert rose and confronted me. I had often read 
about the devil in a man’s eyes. I now for the first 
time realized the meaning of this phrase. 

— 142 — 


A DARK MOTIVE. 


''Am I to understand,” he said slowly, “you are 
offended when I suggest that you shall marry my sis- 
-ter? Do you consider that a gentleman of your ante- 
cedents has a right to be indignant when he is told 
that a good woman is willing to marry him? My 
soul! It seems to me Beulah might well hesitate to 
marry you. As for you — ” 

I sat down again and covered my face with my 
hands. 

“Gilbert,” I cried, “have some mercy. I am en- 
gaged to Judith. I love her — try to realize what that 
means — I love her! Only last night I told her so. 
And she loves me, has promised to marry me.” 

Gilbert sat down beside me and was silent for a 
while. When he spoke again it was in his habitual, 
cold, sarcastic manner. 

“My son, I was about to call you an idiot, but I 
am loth to use harsh words, under the circumstances. 
At the same time, it would be a gross outrage on com- 
mon sense to call you a wise man — would it not? I 
leave it to you.” 

“I am not going to contest the point,” I groaned. 

“Why have you asked Judith to marry you? Have 
you not known all along that you could not marry 
her?” 

I made no reply. What could I say? 

“Have you not considered,” he went on, “that you 
— U3 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


must become dead to everybody in Janeville, Judith 
included, if our plans are to be carried out?” 

“Since last night I have considered nothing else.” 

“Well then, you — Oh for breath to utter what is 
like thee! Why did you allow yourself to drift into a 
love affair at such a time?” 

“Drift is the right word,” I said. “I drifted into 
it, never thinking what the end would be.” 

“Even so. And in admitting your cowardice, you 
virtually admit that marriage with this girl is impos- 
sible, if you are to keep your engagements with me; 
therefore, you must have known in your heart that 
you were about to betray either me or the girl. Well, 
it is not for me to ask whether you have considered 
the consequences of betraying Judith — that is your 
affair; Iput I wish to know whether you have consid- 
ered the consequences — all the consequences — of play- 
ing false to me?” 

“I have not failed to consider some of them,” I an- 
swered bitterly. 

“Then, no doubt, you have perceived that these con- 
sequences — one of them, at least, will be separation 
from the girl — ^whether you go on with me or not. 
Whether you go forwards or backwards, you lose the 
girl — or she loses you, which comes to the same 
thing.” 

“Gilbert,” I said, “let me out of this thing. I will 
— 144 — 


A DARK MOTIVE. 


give you every cent I have in the world — there will 
be enough to pay you back — all you have put into 
this scheme.” 

He got out a pencil and note-book. 

“Let me see,” he said, with the air of one about to 
make an intricate calculation, “how many thousand 
dollars did we expect to clear? Have you as much 
about you as would pay my share of the profit?” 

“You know I have not,” I replied. 

“Have you any friends who would lend you the 
money? Perhaps some of your former clients at 
Gopher City might help you.” 

I was silent. He put the note-book back into his 
pocket, folded his arms across his breast, and said, 
as if addressing the trees : 

“I do not know why I am so patient with this young 
man? Has he given me medicines to make me love 
him? I know very well, he is aware that there is, for 
me, a very easy, simple way out of this difficulty. In 
a word where accidents of a fatal nature happen al- 
most daily — but lead us not into temptation!” 

This was a threat, of course; and coming from such 
a man, I well knew what it meant. The purport 
of it was that, if I did not comply with his wishes, 
he would kill me in such a way as to- make my death 
appear accidental. Then he would draw the- money 
for which my life was insured. He allowed me only 
— 145 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


a short time to consider his words. Rising to his feet, 
he said: 

“Enough of foolishness! Let us come to the point; 
and the point is this. Will you marry Beulah? Yes 
or no?'* 

“But I do not love Beulah." 

“No? Well, it may be that Beulah does not love 
you. This will be what the novel writers call a ‘mar» 
riage de convenience’." 

“But suppose — God help me! Suppose I agree not 
to marry Judith. Suppose I promise to give her up — 
never to see her again?" 

“Nonsense. What would a pledge like that be 
worth? We are not fools enough to take any chances 
with a man in love. Come, you must know very well 
that this is merely a common sense measure of self- 
defense on our part. We are practical people, Beulah 
and I. Besides, what says the great bard? 

‘The friends thou hast, grapple them to thy soul with 
hooks of steel.’ 

That is all we want to do — all in the world — if an 
Iowa marriage can be called a hoop of steel. When 
you are married to Beulah we will have a hold upon 
you, my dear young friend, that will keep you from 
harming yourself or us. I tell you, things have come 
to such a pass that there is no other way — or, rather, * 


- U6 — 


‘WHY, YOUR WIFE IS THE BETTER SOLDIER. Page 149. 








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1 



A DARK MOTIVE. 


but one other way. It is for you to decide whether 
you prefer to become a dead man in theory or a dead 
man in fact. You see I am plain with you.’’ 

“But when,” I said, anxiously, “would this marriage 
take place?” 

“In an hour — or even in less time, if you are in a 
hurry. That is why we are here. I suppose the bride 
is making ready in her room at this moment. We can 
procure the license in a few minutes. From the num- 
ber of church steeples I should say there can be no 
lack of parsons here.” 

“But Beulah and I pass for brother and sister in 
Janeville.” 

“Yes, but this will be a private wedding. More- 
over it is time for you to disappear; and that will sim- 
plify matters.” 

I will not dwell upon the further details of this un- 
happy business. The very recollection of it maddens 
and sickens me. I was in the net of thes6 human 
spiders, they would not let me go, and I could not 
escape. O, it was horrible, horrible! Gilbert pro- 
cured the license — he did not have the generosity even 
to pay the license fee. 

“It will be a dollar,” he sai “and the preacher 
ought to have about ten dollars— eleven in all. There 
will be some other expenses, hack-fare, and so forth. 


— 147 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 

Better hand me about fifteen, and I will look after 
everything.” 

We obtained the license and the address of a min- 
ister, after which Gilbert procured a carriage and 
horses from a liveryman, our own team being tired 
with the long drive. I waited inside the vehicle while 
Gilbert went into the hotel for Beulah. I bestowed 
one despairing look upon her as she entered and 
seated herself by my side. There was not the ghost 
of a blush upon her ghastly face, not a sign that her 
heart beat faster by so much as one additional throb 
per minute. Horrible! As we drove to the house of 
the minister, I thought of Judith, and felt that if the 
grave were between us we could not be more effectu- 
ally severed than we must be by the act of that hour. 
We entered the preacher’s house. A happy, peaceful 
home, no doubt, but for me its door might have borne 
upon its lintel the words read by Dante over the gate 
of hell, “Who enters here, leave hope behind.” 

“Do you, Michael Carmichael, take this woman, 
etc., etc.” I recall but little of it, distinctly. I sup- 
pose I made the right responses at the right time. At 
last I heard the preacher say, “Husband and wife;” 
and I remember nothing more until I found myself 
lying upon a couch with the minister bathing my face 
with cold water. Beulah was seated in a chair with 


— 148 — 


A DARK MOTIVE. 


her hands folded in her lap, and Gilbert was holding 
a basin for the preacher. 

'‘Come,’’ said the minister, “you must not let your 
nerves get the better of you in this way. Why, your 
wife is the braver soldier. See. she is perfectly com- 
posed.” 

So, in fact, she was — perfectly calm. I got upon 
my feet and Beulah said in her deepest tones: 

“It is time to go.” 

Beulah and I went outside and waited upon the 
porch, while Gilbert paid the preacher his fee and 
obtained his signature to the marriage certificate. As 
the man of God was filling the blanks in the certificate 
form, I heard Gilbert say: 

“Quite a nervous person, my brother-in-law. But 
then this is a very old attachment. Known and loved 
each other from infancy, you might say. Good many 
unfortunate hindrances. Parents on both sides op- 
posed the match. When he heard the words, 'man 
and wife,’ and realized that the dream of his life was 
fulfilled, he just couldn’t stand it — keeled him over like 
a duck. Always was an emotional creature. Will 
make none the worse husband for that, I should say.” 

I recall the further events of that day as a man may 
recall the dreams of a fever. No attempt was made to 
keep the marriage secret in the town, for I was mar- 
ried in my true name. I recall the staring and grin- 
— 149 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


ning of the waiters at the supper table. I have a dim 
recollection of a pitying look bestowed upon me by 
the chambermaid, when she bade us good-night at the 
door of our nuptial chamber. 

We returned to Janeville next day. During the 
three days that followed our return, I kept my bed, 
sick in body and mind. My wife waited upon me 
without the slightest demonstration of love or aver- 
sion. She made it her business to see that all my 
wants were supplied, and she kept all visitors from 
me, except the doctor. On the second morning she 
entered my room with some chrysanthemums in a 
vase. 

‘‘A young lady sends you these,’' she said, “a Miss 
Wymore. She sends her best wishes for your recov- 
ery, and hopes you will be well enough to attend 
prayer meeting.” 

I turned my face to the wall and drew the counter- 
pane over my head. 


— 150 — 


A DISAPPEARANCE, 


CHAPTER IX; 

A DISAPPEARANCE. 

The sight of the small package of newspapers which 
lies on my desk as I write, fills me with emotions of a 
very painful kind. The papers are yellow with age, 
far I have kept them long; yet.it has been many years 
since I had the courage to unfold one of them. Now, 
however, in order to refresh my memory, I must go 
over their contents once more, for they contain detailed 
accounts of my disappearance from Janeville. I open, 
first, my old paper, the “Janeville Banner.” How the 
past comes back to me as I see once more the old, 
familiar head-letter, the long-primer news type, and 
the half page “ad” of “Jones, Happy & Huddlestone.” 
I am given a conspicuous place, under a quarter of a 
column of “scare-head” — as we called it in those days. 
Here is the beginning of the article: 

“It is not often that anything happens to break the 
serene, soul-satisfying monotony of life in our little town. 
From one year’s end to another, the most startling things 
recorded in these columns are weddings and funerals, varied 
occasionally by protracted meetings and elections of town 
officers. But within the last few days an event has Occurred 
which is certainly a record breaker in the way of sensation. 
The oldest inhabitant can remember no time so fraught with 


151 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


excitement since the dark days of ’61. We allude, of course, 
to the sudden, strange and mysterious disappearance of 
George William Ward, last Thursday evening. The facts, 
as given below, have been carefully gathered, and may be 
relied on.” 

The editor then mentions as a matter of possible 
significance, that I had been in poor health and, seem- 
ingly, in low spirits since my return from a short visit 
to Iowa. He gives a particular account of my move- 
ments up to Thursday of the week following my re- 
turn from Pinktown. On the evening of that day, 
there was a church social at the hotel, and he relates 
how, and why, I left the room where the guests were 
assembled, to procure a glass of water for one of them, 
but failed to return. It appears that this caused some 
surprise and some comment, but no particular un- 
easiness, as it was natural to suppose that some cus- 
tomer had called me to the office on some matter of 
business. The editor then tells what happened next 
day: 

“At seven o’clock, as usual, the writer went down to the 
printing office. As it was press day, we locked up the forms 
and began to run off the weekly edition of the BANNER. 
About nine o’clock Charles Ward came in and asked if we 
had seen George that morning. When we told him no, he 
seemed to be troubled, and related the incidents of the even- 
ing before substantially as we have given them. He said 
that on one other recent occasion George had slept out of 
the house and hence his absence had not caused much alarm 
at home.” 


— 152 — 


A DISAPPEARANCE. 


Then he tells how the excitement gradually spread 
in the town, and inquiries were made at the stations 
on the railroad above and below Janeville. He tells 
that an examination of the hotel premises disclosed 
the glass near the pump, and that the Negro boy, 
Sam, had seen me with the tumbler in my hand, going 
out to the pump on the evening of my disappearance. 

“Charles said that none of his clothing was gone except 
what he had on when he left. His hat was gone, but he had 
not taken his overcoat although the weather was cool enough 
to make a heavier garment desirable if a night journey was 
contemplated. The night-man at the depot declared that no 
person whatever had been about the station that evening 
after the 9:30 train.” 

The editor next mentions the fact, learned from my 
brother Charles, that I had the very foolish habit of 
carrying a considerable sum of money about me — 
several hundred dollars. 

“Charles said that while his brother was a very amiable 
young man, he was in some things, very obstinate. He 
said the boy was neither a drunkard nor a gambler and 
had no low associates, but it was possibly the fact of his 
carrying this money about with him might have become 
known, in some way, to evil disposed persons. In which 
case the young man might have been decoyed somewhere 
and murdered for his money.” 

The editor tells how the excitement continued to 
spread through the village and from there to the sur- 
rounding country. He says that on the second day the 


— 153 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


town was filled with farmers who assisted in searching 
the place and its vicinity. Cellars, stables and other 
buildings, even wells and cisterns were examined. 
Every pool in the little stream was dragged, for miles 
above and below Janeville. Every grove, thicket, 
orchard and clump of weeds where a body might be 
hid, was examined, and this rigid search extended for 
miles and continued throughout the entire days of 
Saturday and Sunday. A careful description of my 
person was sent to the police at Omaha, Kansas City, 
Atchison, Leavenworth, St. Joseph and Des Moines, 
and a liberal reward was offered for any information 
that would lead to my discovery. Then follows a 
graphic account of the grief of my brother and sister. 

*‘The sister almost worshipped him, and Charles has 
often been heard to declare that the young man was more 
like a son to him than a brother. Charles is pale and hag- 
gard, evidently wearing himself out in his efforts to find 
George, and his distress is obviously increased by the al- 
most complete prostration of the sister. Miss Ward is 
at this writing confined to her room and can hardly be 
persuaded to see her physician. The hearts of the people 
go out in sympathy to this bereaved brother and sister in 
their hour of trial.” 

Then follows a careful description of me for the guid- 
ance of all who might seek the reward: 

“When last seen, Mr. Ward had on a black cutaway frock- 
coat, black* pantaloons and white waistcoat. He wore a 
pair of number seven congress shoes. Mr. Heintzelman, 

— 154 — 


A DISAPPEARANCE. 


the shoemaker, says the inside of the heel of the left shoe 
had been slightly worn away, and had been straightened 
up with some bits of leather. Mr. Ward had on a freshly 
laundered white shirt, standing linen collar with white string 
tie. The collar was fastened behind with a clasp button and 
in front by separable gold buttons. He wore number H 
linen cuffs fastened with gold buttons; a peculiar looking 
yellow stone was set in each button and one of these stones 
was cracked, the fracture extending across the stone, but 
not quite through the center. A spring on the other button 
had been repaired by the local jeweler who informs us that 
the evidences of his work can be seen on examination. 
The missing man usually carried on his person a small 
pocket comb in a leather case, a small pair of tweezers, a 
pocket knife with buckhorn handle, and a printer’s compos- 
ing rule. It is believed that he had on his person a leather 
belt containing about $750 in paper currency. Also he may 
have had about him some letters addressed to himself; or 
there may have been some other document which might 
assist in his identification.” 

The editor then gives what he intended to be a very 
accurate pen-and-ink portrait of me, giving height, 
weight and colors of eyes and hair. As it does me 
gross injustice, in one or two particulars, I omit it 
here — especially as that part of the description did not 
prove to be of the least value in the end. 

Of course, the story got into the daily papers of the 
larger towns. As such things were rather more un- 
common in those days than they have since become, 
these journals gave a good deal of space to the affair. 
Reporters came to the town and interviewed all sorts 
— 155 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL 


of people about it. They printed all the facts they 
could obtain about me, my relatives, my personal hab- 
its, my birth and parentage. Gilbert was very cordial 
and friendly with these gentlemen of the press and, in 
spite of the fact that he was almost crazed with grief 
and anxiety, he had time to give them a good deal of 
very interesting information. 

Of course, the fact that my life was heavily insured 
and that the beneficiaries in the event of my death 
would be my brother and sister, was soon discovered. 
•Yet, so far as Beulah and Gilbert were concerned, no- 
body could find a single peg upon which a suspicion 
would hang. Here is an extract from a St. Joseph 
morning paper which will show the status of the insur- 
ance question: 

“Charles Ward, brother of the young man who disap- 
peared from Janeville last week, was seen by a reporter of 

the , at the Francis Street station yesterday. Mr. Ward 

was here in conference with the chief of police on some 
matter relating to his brother’s disappearance. The re- 
porter asked him if he had seen the statement in an evening 
paper to the effect that the missing man’s life was heavily 
insured. “I have not seen the paper,” he said, “but if the 
statement is there it is perfectly correct. When my brother 
received his small share of our father’s estate he insisted on 
repaying sister and myself the expense of his education. 
We refused the offer, firmly but positively telling him that 
as we had never married and never intended to, we had 
adopted him. We told him people did not charge their own 
children for such things. George is a very sensitive boy 

— 156 — 


A DISAPPEARANCE. 


and he never seemed quite satisfied. At last he proposed 
to have his life insured for our benefit, and, after vainly 
combating the idea for a long time we consented. But 
we made one condition. We refused to have ourselves 
named in the policies; we persuaded him to insure for the 
benefit of his estate — his next of kin, we told him, would be 
his heirs in any case. We hoped indeed that he would marry, 
in which event the money would go to his wife — or his 
children.” 

“Did your brother leave a will?” 

“We found a paper in his desk which purports to be his 
last will and testament, but we have not opened it. A shoe- 
maker named Heintzelman, and the printer in his office 
say they attested the signature of a document, which he 
told them was his will. But they know nothing of its con- 
tents. It will not be opened unless we are fully satisfied he 
is dead.” 

“If his death is established, and it turns out that you are 
his heirs, will you demand payment of the policies?” 

“I know of no reason why we should not. The com- 
panies had his premiums. No doubt they would-be much 
surprised if we should refuse to press our claims. One 
thing is certain, when the claims are presented, there will 
be no trouble about the payments, for they will be per- 
fectly clear of any taint of suspicion.” 

Enough of the newspapers. The reader will doubt- 
less want to know how my disappearance was man- 
aged. It was, in reality, a very simple matter. While 
the people were dragging the river and searching 
barns and thickets, I was snug in the apartment sacred 
to the grief of my supposed sister. Alas, what a 
shameful thing to relate! The hotel had, it is true. 


- 157 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


been pretty thoroughly overhauled in search of clues 
by my anxious friends. My own room had been care- 
fully searched, time and again, but Beulah’s chamber 
was held sacred from intrusion. Sometimes they 
heard her moans and lamentations through the closed 
doors, so they always stepped lightly, and spoke in 
whispers when they found themselves near that dark- 
ened abode of sorrow. Poor sister, she had been re- 
garded as cold and silent, by no means in the habit 
of airing her feelings for the benefit of the public; but 
now it was seen how, under pressure of this dreadful 
calamity, the barriers of self-restraint were all broken 
down; the mask of indifference had fallen, revealing 
the tender woman behind it — the devoted sister with 
torn and bleeding heart. Pah! I blush to record the 
miserable, ghastly farce! 

Of course Gilbert had admittance to the room. He 
always entered or left with a grave, anxious air, walk- 
ing as if he were picking his way among eggs. Sym- 
pathetic listeners outside could hear his voice from 
time to time, as he gently remonstrated with his 
stricken sister, admonishing her not to give way to 
despair, and assuring her that he had not lost hope of 
finding their lost brother. At such times I sat with 
my chair so placed that no inquisitive eye could see 
me through the keyhole, or get a glimpse of me when 


— 158 — 


A DISAPPEARANCE. 


the door was opened. What a grim, hideous, scan- 
dalous comedy! 

And how well it was acted! But for the fact that 
these pages will not see the light while I live, I would 
not dare to write the ugly details of it. It was not 
until noon of the second day that Beulah could be 
induced to partake of food. Then a waiter was admit- 
ted with a tray containing such delicacies as might 
tempt the appetite of a person who had little heart to 
partake of nourishment. Most of this was sent back 
untasted, for we had a private store of food, provided 
in anticipation of the event. I was in the closet while 
the waiter was in the room. The admission of this 
waiter, and the doctor, later in the day, was a stroke 
of policy for which Beulah is to be credited. The 
fact that two entirely disinterested persons had been 
in the room would effectually prevent suspicion in that 
direction. We even allowed the closet door to remain 
partly open while the physician was there, so that he 
might see the interior of the place — all except the part 
behind the door — which opened inward. There was 
no danger that a respectable man like Dr. Lantz would 
take it into his head to rummage the closet. The 
doctor prescribed quiet, for one thing, and Gilbert saw 
that this part of the medical man’s orders were strictly 
carried out. He had just lost a brother. Could any- 
body blame him for not wishing to lose his sister, also? 

— 159 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


For three weary days I remained shut up with my 
beloved wife. I was afraid to move, afraid to speak, 
almost afraid to breathe, trembling at every footstep 
that approached the door. At midnight of the third 
day Gilbert came to the room and reported that it 
would be safe for me to leave. I had the same disguise 
I wore at El Agua. Weeks beforehand we had pur- 
chased a suit of clothes for me in St. Joseph, conceal- 
ing them in Beulah’s trunk. All my handkerchiefs, 
shirts and underclothing were new and marked with 
initials of the name I was to bear while in conceal- 
ment. The reason for this was that we feared the 
woman who did the washing for the hotel might miss 
my own clothing from the laundry list. All the gar- 
ments worn by me on the evening of my disappearance 
were packed in a valise along with my other belong- 
ings. 

There is, or was at that time, a freight train from 
the north due in Janeville at 1:45 A. M. As this train 
carried passengers, some one from the hotel was 
usually there to meet it. Sometimes Gilbert attended 
to this duty, and hence his presence there with me, if 
observed at all, would excite no comment. We were 
very careful in leaving the. house, but once outside the 
greatest danger of detection was over. It was a dark 
night, not raining, but cloudy. There was not much 
chance of meeting any of the townspeople at that hour. 


— 160 — 


A DISAPPEARANCE, 


In any case, as I was well disguised, any one meeting 
us must have thought that Gilbert was escorting a 
guest to the train. There was a light burning in the 
window of the station and we had to cross the rays of 
this light on our way to the upper end of the platform ; 
but the night-man was fast asleep on a table, and there 
was no one else about. When the train came in, the 
engine stopped at the water tank below the station 
house. We had to walk along the track some dis- 
tance to reach the caboose. I shook hands with Gil- 
bert and climbed aboard. I was the only passenger. 
Nothing in this whole business so tried my nerves as 
the waiting for that train to start. There was a long 
period of backing, and bumping, and jerking, and 
pushing — but at last the welcome signal sounded and 
we were off. 

I must not weary the reader with a circumstantial 
account of my experiences during the seven months 
that followed my flight. I went from Janeville to St. 
Joseph, from St. Joseph to Lexington, then to Sedalia, 
and from there to a small village within forty miles of 
Springfield. As I had picked up a little knowledge of 
the printer's art, I got employment in a printing of- 
fice, so that at the end of seven months, with strict 
economy, I actually was better off financially than 
when I left home. On the twenty-eighth day of April, 
I received a newspaper enclosed in an ordinary 
— 161 — - 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


stamped wrapper. On the inside of the wrapper, I 
found this: "‘(I^ax) (ia) (apecqe) (ex) (kjga).” 

This was a cipher message from Gilbert and it 
meant, “Meet me at El Agua at once.” Thus it hap- 
pened that, on the evening of May 1, near the hour 
of sunset, I found myself once more on the porch of 
the log-house near El Agua. As I raised my hand to 
knock, the door opened, and Gilbert stood before me. 
He shook hands cordially, drew me inside, and shut 
the door. 

“Have been here a little more than a week,” he 
said, “about ten days, in fact. I left your wife well; 
she sends her love; had to leave her in Janeville to 
look after the hotel. I am supposed to be in Denver 
investigating the case of a sick man who was thought 
to resemble you.” 

“Yes,” I replied, “I have had access to many news- 
papers from all parts of the country, so that I have 
been able to keep posted about myself. My dead body 
has been found and identified in San Francisco, Cin- 
cinnati, Baton Rouge and East St. Louis. People 
who knew me intimately have seen me, alive and well, 
in Galveston, Boise City and Toronto.” 

“Just so, and I even spent fifty dollars to have a 
dead man exhumed in Wichita — he really did look like 
you. Of course that means twenty-five dollars out of 
your pocket, but the money was well spent, since that 
— 162 — 


A DISAPPEARANCE. 


little move must have set all minds at rest as to the 
genuineness of my belief in your disappearance.” 

‘‘Well,” I said, “you sent for me, and here I am. 
What next?” 

“We will have a bite of supper next. As I live here 
in the strictest privacy, I never have a fire until after 
sundown. If you will draw the blinds carefully, I will 
light a lamp and make a fire.” 

I do not know how he had managed to supply him- 
self with provisions without making his presence 
known in the neighborhood. In fact, I never quite 
understood his El Agua environments. It may be 
that he had friends in the neighborhood. 

“I suppose,” he said, as he seated himself in an 
arm-chair, after supper, “there is no business in the 
world so unsatisfactory altogether, to the man who 
practices it, as the prophecy business. Have you ever 
looked into that?” 

“I have never given the subject a moment’s 
thought,” I said. 

“I expect it is all good for the prophet, ‘Lest he o’er 
high and proud should turn, cause he’s sae gifted.’ 
I believe that whenever a genuine prophecy is uttered, 
the fulfillment never comes about in the way the 
prophet expects. You see, he is seldom permitted to 
give more than the principal facts, the bare outline, 
you might say. If ever he attempts to fill in the shad- 
— 163 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


ing — to go into details — he ‘gets left’ — as you news- 
paper men say. If you take the trouble to study the 
question, you will find this is invariably true. For 
example, I made a prophecy last summer, as you may 
remember, about young Mr. Lindsay.” 

“I have not forgotten it,” I said. “I have had little 
else to think of these last ten months.” 

“There it is! Ten months! I said he would die in 
six months; it is now ten months, and he has not been 
dead more than three days. I said he would die of 
heart disease; he did not die of heart disease at all.” 

“Heavens and earth!” I exclaimed, a horrible sus- 
picion coming into my mind, “Has the man been mur- 
dered?” 

“No — no, I should say not — what made you think 
of it? I do not think there is any evidence, any con-, 
elusive evidence, that is to say, that he was murdered. 
But you shall read the facts.” 

He produced from a pocket of his coat a copy of the 
El Agua “Fountain” of that date, still damp from the 
press. 

“It cost me ten cents in cash and no end of trouble 
to get this, but it is worth all it cost. I had to go away 
round to the place where we left the mail coach, when 
you first came out here. I had to wait a long time 
before I saw a country boy going into town. I paid 
him to bring a paper on his return. It took almost 
— 164 — 


A DISAPPEARANCE. 


the entire afternoon — in fact, I had only just returned 
when you came.’’ 

“I did not care to ask him why he took so much 
trouble to get that particular paper, but I have always 
regarded that as a very suspicious circumstance. 

I have that ominous paper before me now. The 
very sight of it is so hateful to me that I think I shall 
burn it as soon as I have made one or two excerpts. 
The editor tells, at great length, how one of “our 
grandest young men, Mr. Hamilton Lindsay, went 
forth to the green wood in the flower of youth- 
ful bloom and returned this morning, a corpse, in the 
bottom of Jack Harmon’s wood-rack.” He relates 
how, in consequence, “ a mantle of deepest gloom has 
fell over our once happy community.” It appears that 
the young man had left his home for a day’s fishing on 
Pine creek, about five miles from El Agua. Not far 
from that stream he was seen, by a person whom the 
editor designates as “Uncle Billy Ham,” in conversa- 
tion with a stranger — probably a visitor at the springs, 
out for a morning walk. The young man’s failure to 
come home had not caused his relatives much uneasi- 
ness, as they had reason to believe he would go to 
a neighboring town that evening. On the second 
morning a wood-hauler, named Jack Harmon, had 
found Mr. Lindsay’s buggy in the woods, and near by 
his horse was found tied to a tree, the harness re- 


— 165 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


moved. Further details are here quoted from the 
paper, with the understanding that I am not respon- 
sible for the literary style of the matter quoted: 

“The mare had tramped the ground smooth and had 
eaten the bark off the tree as high as she could reach. 
Jack recognized her as the property of Hamilton Lindsay 
and he made up his mind to look round a little. They was 
some buzzards on a dead limb of a tree across the creek 
and he went over that way to see what they was after. A 
little ways down the river he came across a cane fishing pole 
lying on the ground. At that place there is a high bank 
composed mostly of rock and the top of this bank is twenty 
feet above the water and the bottom is about five feet back 
from the edge of the water. In the little strip of ground be- 
tween the bank and the water’s edge they are a good many 
good-sized rocks scattered about. Jack looked over the 
bank and saw a man lying down there among the rocks. 
He called the man but got no answer. It was not easy to 
get to him because ten feet up the river, and twenty feet 
below, the water comes right up to the bank, and it is ten 
feet deep at both places. By holding on to bushes and 
vines, and putting his feet in cracks and bulges in the rocks 
a man can get down if he has nerve enough. Jack had the 
nerve, but it took him all of a quarter of an hour to get 
down. The man proved to be Hamilton Lindsay. A pocket 
revolver was lying near him on the ground. Just over his 
heart the clothing was burned and blackened with powder. 
It was found, at the inquest, that every rib on one side of 
his body was broken. His left arm was crushed and the left 
leg was broken in two places. All alone with no prospect of 
help coming, crazed with pain, the unhappy young man had 
evidently killed himself to get out of his misery.” 

Then follows an account of how the body was re- 
— 166 — 


A DISAPPEARANCE. 


moved from its almost inaccessible position. Also an 
account of the proceedings before the coroner. Here 
is the verdict of the coroner’s jury: 

“We, the jury, find that the deceased, Hamilton Lindsay, 
came to his death from a fall from a ledge of rocks on Pine 
Creek, and also by a gun-shot wound in the region of the 
heart, inflicted by himself, on or about the 28. day of April, 
18 , at county, Missouri.” 

Something of the horror with which I read the ar- 
ticle must have appeared in my face, for, as I put down 
the paper, Gilbert asked me if I felt sick. 

“Sick!” I exclaimed. “Yes, sick at heart! I seem 
to be going deeper and deeper into the bottomless pit. 
Every additional step downward brings me face to 
face with new horrors!” 

“You have my sympathy, I am sure. But where, 
may I ask, did you seem to be going before you read 
that article? To heaven?” 

I made no reply to the brutal taunt. He waited for 
a while and then said: 

“Well, go on.” 

“I have no more to say. Or, if I have, language is 
too feeble to express it.” 

“I think you really have more to say. If you can- 
not express it as well as you wish, express it as well 
as you can. You had some questions to asic, I am 
sure. Ask them now — or ‘hereafter forever hold your 
peace.’ ” 

— 167 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


*‘I will hold my peace/' I said. “For God’s sake, 
hold yours, as far as this business is concerned, if you 
do not want to drive me mad!” 

“So be it. I really had some curiosity to know what 
you were about to ask; but the secrets of a comrade 
should be respected. Is it not so? Shall it be so with 
us?” 

“With all my heart,” I said. 

“Very well. Now to business. This unfortunate 
young man will be buried to-morrow — so the paper 
says. We should attend the funeral or, at least, the 
burial. It may be a little risky, as far as I am con- 
cerned, but nobody knows you. We must study the 
scene of our future operations, to prevent mistakes.” 

“Where is the cemetery?” 

“Half a mile north of El Agua and about two and 
one-half miles south of here, as the crow flies — ^be- 
tween here and El Agua.” 

“In that case why should we go near the church 
where the funeral services will be held? The paper 
says the church service will be held at three o’clock 
in the afternoon. At that hour the people will be at 
church, and the graveyard will be deserted, so that 
we can easily find the grave. Or, if the grave-digger 
and his assistants are there, we can watch the place 
from a safe distance. All we want, I suppose, is the 
location of the grave.” 

— 168 — 


A DISAPPEARANCE. 


"‘I believe you are right/’ he said, after considering 
the matter a few minutes. 

“But tell me,” I said, “why either of us should care 
who sees us? I am a stranger and, as you have lived 
here before, there could be nothing strange about 
your coming back.” 

“This is a very inquisitive, suspicious old world. 
On the day when Mr. Lindsay left home a stranger 
was seen in his company — and I am a stranger, com- 
paratively speaking. I may not resemble that par- 
ticular stranger, but, possibly, I may. I know some- 
thing of that old Uncle Billy — ^what’s his name. If 
he should take it into his obstinate old head that I 
resemble that man, he would cackle over it like 
a hen over a new-laid egg. I have no time to waste 
answering fool questions. Moreover, there may be 
people here from Janeville. Remember that El Agua 
is a health resort.” 


— 160 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


CHAPTER X. 

PREPARING THE EVIDENCE. 

From a safe hiding-place among the trees which 
grew close to the graveyard fence, we witnessed the 
burial of the unfortunate young man. When the 
people left, we made a close inspection of the place to 
make sure of finding the grave again at night. There 
was no road across the hills to our house, but as we 
were afoot, this made little difference to us. 

When we started home I observed that the weather 
was about to change for the worse. When we got to 
the southeast corner of the field, we came into a sort 
of cow-path which followed the fence to the house, a 
quarter of a mile away. Across the clearing we had 
a good view of the sky to the northwest. A long, 
heavy, wicked-looking cloud was coming from that 
direction. At the outer edge, it was rough and rag- 
ged, but back of the jagged border it looked as 
smooth and hard as polished granite. It had a green- 
ish tinge, which imparted to it a singularly venomous 
look. Smaller clouds — fragments of the main body 
seemingly — went before the mass, turning somer- 
saults. It was not later than six o’clock, but the woods 
were growing dark. Just as we reached the big road 
— 170 — 


PREPARING THE EVIDENCE. 


which passed our door, a great column of dust 
swept down the highway, and the sand and gravel 
stung our faces like shot. Fortunately the house was 
only a few yards away, and we ran for its shelter, our 
bodies bent at an angle of forty-five degrees. I was a 
little ahead of Gilbert, and I actually ran over a man 
on the porch. 

Not a time to ask questions, especially as questions 
would have been useless in that awful outbreak. The 
roar of the wind and thunder was deafening, and the 
air was full of leaves and branches torn from the trees; 
one great limb of a tree, thick as a man’s body, fell 
with the heavy end on the edge of the verandah. We 
did not lose any time getting inside when Gilbert un- 
locked the door, but it took the combined strength of 
all three to close the shutters. Inside, it was dark as if 
at midnight; the stanch old log structure trembled 
under the shock of the tempest, but endured it bravely. 
The wind soon spent its force; the rain, however, con- 
tinued to fall. 

'‘Sorry to inconvenience you, gentlemen,” said the 
stranger, "but any port in a storm, you know. Glid- 
dens is my name — agent for the White Star nursery 
of Stella Junction, Illenoy. What you Mis-soo-reans 
call a fruit tree pedlar. I seen that storm coming and 
hunted for shelter right quick. I don’t believe I was 
ever any gladder than when I see this house, or any 
— 171 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


sorrier than when I found it shut up and the folks 
away from home. As I didn’t have no time to hunt 
any further, I had to make the best of it right where 
I was. I tell you I was mighty lonesome for a few 
minutes. I felt real pleased when one of you gentle- 
men tromped on me, out there on the stoop.” 

As we could not well turn the man out in the rain, 
we invited him to stay all night. We entered the 
sitting-room, lighted a lamp, and had a good look at 
our visitor. A muscular, spare man of about my size 
and weight. Bright, intelligent brown eyes. No beard 
on his chin or upper lip. He wore a suit of dark gray 
clothes and carried a small oil-cloth bag swung over 
his shoulders, like a school-boy’s satchel or a soldier’s 
haversack. The bag contained his specimen books — 
as we learned when he offered to sell us fruit trees, 
after supper. 

Gilbert, as the man in possession, told him he had 
no wish to buy trees, being only a renter; but we 
looked at his pictures with much interest. Gilbert 
stood behind the stranger’s chair and looked over his 
shoulder. Several times he made me a sign which I 
could not at first comprehend. He would draw the 
fore-finger of his left hand between the finger and 
thumb of his right. Finally I remembered Beulah’s 
remarkable story of the drover, the farm-hand, and 
the nice old gentleman. Sure enough, there was a 
— 172 — 


PREPARING THE EVIDENCE. 


little white seam between the stranger’s thumb and 
forefinger. 

I understood at once, of course, that this was a 
spy; and the discovery was far from pleasant, all 
things considered. Yet a brief reflection convinced 
me that he was not particularly concerned about me, 
since he had evidently been upon Gilbert’s track long 
before I came to the neighborhood of El Agua. It 
was easy for me to believe that Gilbert had, at some 
time or other, done something to bring the blood- 
hounds of the law upon his track; yet I never learned 
what specific act of wickedness it was that brought 
him under the notice of Mr. Gliddens. As to Glid- 
dens, I am not morally responsible for what happened 
to him, though in strict construction of law — But 
never mind. He was, by profession, a hunter of men, 
and, as such, must have taken into account the perils 
of the chase as well as its pleasures and profits. 

I really think he understood his nefarious business 
very well, and he might have proved a formidable foe 
to any man but Gilbert. I have the idea that he re- 
tired to rest, that night, well pleased with himself as a 
prince of ^‘Old Sleuths.” Perhaps he looked forward 
to the time when his name should be embalmed in 
the pages of a detective novel. For, on sonie pretext 
of settling a point of theology concerning which he 
and my companion had a heated argument before bed- 
— 173 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


time, he actually got his intended victim to agree to 
go with him to El Agua in the morning — to consult 
some book of reference. 

When they set out on this errand, after breakfast, 
Gilbert undertook to show him the shorter route 
across the hills. When they were gone I decided to 
take a nap, because, for various reasons, I had not 
slept well during the night. I do not know how long 
I slept — two hours, it may be. I was aroused from 
my slumbers by a very disagreeable odor in the house. 
I got up and went into the kitchen. I found that Gil- 
bert had returned, had lighted a fire, and was burning 
something in the kitchen stove. I now believe the 
disagreeable odor came from Mr. Gliddens’ oil-skin 
bag, although I could not swear to it. When I en- 
tered, Gilbert was taking some papers from a large 
pocket-book with a red Morocco cover. He stuffed 
the papers into the stove. When he saw me, he said: 

“Queer about the villain in a novel, isn’t it? He 
always hides the stolen will, or other documentary 
proof of the rightful heir’s title — or the marriage cer- 
tificate — ^hides it, or carries it around with him. Then 
somebody finds the important document, whatever it 
is, and there is trouble for the villain and triumph for 
his victim. Yet, in an age when matches cost only a 
cent a box, it is so easy to burn anything made of pa- 
per, and it is such a plain, every-day, common-sense 
— 174 — 


PREPARING THE EVIDENCE. 


thing to do, that anybody but a villain would do it at 
once. What a fool a villain is!” 

Could Gilbert have known how the fates were mock- 
ing him at that moment! He was destined to dig his 
own grave — figuratively speaking — that very night! 

‘‘Where is the fruit-tree agent?” I asked. 

“Some people would answer that question one way, 
some another. I suppose an Armenian heretic, like 
you, might say that the question of Mr. Gliddens’ 
whereabouts must depend upon how Mr. Gliddens has 
lived. I am not so rash as to say anything like that. 
He may have been of the elect.” 

How little I dreamed, at that moment, of the time 
and place where I should hear the same question pro- 
pounded, to be answered to all intents and purposes 
in the same way. In this case, the cold-blooded levity 
— nay, the downright brutality — of the answer, made 
me sick. He looked at me steadily for a moment, and 
said: 

“Well? Any more questions?” 

“No,” I said. 

“Quite sure?” 

“Quite sure.” 

“And you are satisfied not to know the contents of 
this?” and he held up the pocket-book. 

“It is nothing to me,” I replied. 

“Discreet young man! Now to business. It is yet 
— 175 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


early in the day, but there is much to be done, and 
that it may be well done, there should be a division of 
labor. We must have a team and horses, and it will be 
my business to see to that. I will have to go around 
to the Schneidervale road and catch the mail coach. 
I know a man over in that country who will let me 
have what I want and no questions asked. He has 
already accommodated me in that way once, and that 
recently, which will explain to you the presence of 
certain things in the cellar. I cannot get back before 
dark, but then we will have time to feed the horses 
and give them a couple of hour’s rest. Meanwhile 
there will be work for you. Between here and the 
graveyard the woods are open enough to admit the 
passage of a wagon among the trees, but there are 
some hollows to cross. Go out, this afternoon, and 
mark a way for us — mark it so carefully that we will 
not miss it in the dark. We must get the wagon right 
up to the graveyard fence, as near the grave as pos- 
sible. Take the whole afternoon if necessary, and 
make sure of your landmarks.” 

A beautiful afternoon it was. Only a few traces of 
yesterday’s storm could be seen. A broken branch 
here and there, or the shattered top of a tree, attested 
the violence of the wind. The heavy rainfall of the 
day before had made little impression on the stony 
soil. In some of the low places there were heaps of 
— 176 — 


PREPARING THE EVIDENCE. 


twigs and leaves where they had been drifted by the 
water. Ferns which had stood by the side of little 
brooks were lying flat upon the ground, but the brooks 
had subsided once more into little tinkling rills, run- 
ning, clear as crystal, among the stones. I think I 
have never seen anything so exquisitely beautiful, as 
the woods were on that May afternoon. Deep beds of 
fern in the hollows, star-eyed daisies, great masses of 
violets, millions of dandelions, verbenas, clusters of 
pink and purple phlox, wonderful fairy nooks, car- 
peted with moss and flecked with sunbeams, broken 
by the tender green leaves above. 

It is not to be supposed that I let the beauty of the 
scene win my thoughts entirely from the duty I had 
to perform. I succeeded, not without some trouble, 
in marking out a practicable route for the team, ex- 
ploring the way carefully clear up to the back fence 
of the cemetery. My work finished, I did not linger 
long in sight of that lonely, last resting-place of the 
dead. I went back into the woods some forty or fifty 
yards, and being a little fatigued, sat down upon a 
ledge of rocks with my back against a tree, to meditate 
upon the lovely world about me. So beautiful — so 
delightful! I remember thinking that if there were 
no sin, no devil, no cold-hearted, selfish, scheming 
men like Gilbert, this earth would be paradise, indeed. 

A gentle breeze from the southwest bent the 
— 177 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


branches and made the young leaves shiver with a 
pleasant sound. Sometimes a stronger gust would 
tear up from among the young grass blades some old, 
dead leaves of last year, driving them before it down 
the hill into the soft, green twilight of the bush-clad 
hollows. Almost behind me, as I sat with my back 
to the graveyard, there were three or four trees grow- 
ing close together. One of these was a small oak, with 
wide spreading branches arching over until the ends 
almost touched the ground. A little summer whirl- 
wind — a sort of fairy tornado, came dancing up from 
the southwest. It dashed into the midst of this clump 
of trees and out again, coming directly toward me. 
The noise it made caused me to turn my head and I 
saw something dark driven before it. Within a few 
feet of me the miniature cyclone left the earth and 
went of¥, humming like a swarm of bees among the 
tree-tops. It left the dark object within easy reach of 
my hand. It was a man’s hat, and I knew it in a mo- 
ment for the one worn by the man Gliddens when he 
left our place that morning. Under the circumstances, 
this was an awful thing to happen. I guessed at once 
what was hidden there under those trees, and my first 
impulse was to get away from there. I think I should 
have acted upon this impulse, but for the uncanny 
suggestion of something supernatural in the in- 
cident. An absurd notion, no doubt, but it seemed to 


— 178 — 


HE WENT INTO THE GRAVE ONCE MORE. Page 181 









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PREPARING THE EVIDENCE. 


me the spirit of a murdered man was in that whirl- 
wind, sending this mute messenger to summon me to 
the spot, that I might bear witness of the crime, de- 
nounce the criminal, avenging the innocent victim. 
Even now as I recall that strange incident, I am con- 
scious of a superstitious thrill. I felt myself irresist- 
ably drawn to the place. Like St. Anthony, ‘‘I could 
not choose but look.’’ 

I examined the hat, but found no evidence that 
would indicate violence. It was a common, soft felt 
hat. I recalled its owner as he left the house that 
morning, a jest upon his lips, satisfied with himself 
and all the world. Nerving myself for the sight which 
I knew I should see, I went up to the place and drew 
aside the branches with my hand. A pretty little nat- 
ural arbor, carpeted with moss, in the midst of which, 
with face upturned, with glazed, half-closed eyes that 
seemed to stare at the blue sky through the branches, 
lay all that was mortal of our late guest. In the mid- 
dle of his forehead was a round hole with little blue 
powder specks about it. I suppose the bullet must 
have passed through his head as the moss beneath was 
stained crimson. The pockets of his trousers were 
inside out, and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. He had 
certainly been searched after he had been killed^ but 
his watch was still ticking in his pocket. I do not 
think he had met his death at that particular spot. He 
^179 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


had probably been dragged there by his slayer. I do 
not know the details of this tragedy. I never ques- 
tioned Gilbert on the subject, and he was not the man 
to volunteer information. Poor Mr. Gliddens ! he must 
have known that life was at stake in the game he was 
playing with one of the most hardened and desperate 
of the world’s scoundrels, but I confess I have always 
felt sorry for him. 

It was about eleven o’clock that night when Gilbert 
and I left the house on that awful errand, the memory 
of which has ever since been revolting to me. The 
night was clear, but there was no m.oon, and the jour- 
ney was slow and tedious. Gilbert drove, and I walked 
ahead of the horses, with a lighted lantern. We 
reached the graveyard a little after midnight. We 
took the horses from the wagon and tied them to a 
tree at some distance from the place where we were to 
work. Then we took the wagon and backed it up 
against the fence as near the grave as possible. Of 
course we had not come unprovided with such tools 
as we needed. Gilbert took one of the shovels and 
pried one of the upper boards from the fence, so that, 
when the wagon wheels were against the bottom 
boards, the hinged end-gate of the wagon would hang, 
when let down, inside the yard. 

It would be of no use for me to pretend I was not 
nervous and uneasy, although my reason told me there 
— 180 — 


PREPARING THE EVIDENCE. 


was little danger of interruption at that hour. There 
was no public highway near the cemetery; the road 
which led to it ended at the gate on the south side. It 
was not a well-kept place of interment. Even in the 
daylight it was a dreary, forlorn-looking spot; in the 
night it was horrible. Gilbert blew out the lantern 
and we set to work. Of course we made no more noise 
than was absolutely necessary, but sometimes when 
the shovels would strike one of the small pebbles 
mixed with the dirt it seemed to me that the sound 
must be heard in El Agua. 

If there was anything wrong with my companion’s 
nerves I did not discover it. When we had cleared out 
the pit to the boards which covered the vault where 
the coffin lay, he assisted me to get out. Then, after 
removing the boards, he took a screw-driver from his 
pocket and removed the screws from the lid of the 
box containing the coffin. He then loosened the 
screws in the lid of the casket, so that it could be re- 
moved when necessary. Getting out of the grave, 
with my assistance, he climbed over the fence and 
went out to where the horses were, and brought back 
the driving reins, proceeding in everything with a de- 
liberation that nearly drove me wild. He went into 
the grave once more, taking the reins with him. ~ 

Further details will be useless. We got what we 
came for, and deposited it in the wagon. After a very 
— 181 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


brief rest from our exertions I was anxious to fill the 
pit and get away as speedily as possible, but Gilbert 
said, with brutal levity that was awful to hear: 

“Wait. An empty grave is of no use to anybody 
and may cause confusion on the resurrection morning. 
I have a tenant for this one — if you will kindly help 
me to put him in possession.’' 

I knew what he meant, of course, and, while I did 
not approve of his speech, I saw that his plan was 
wise and prudent, for many reasons. And so I helped 
him to deposit the body of his victim in the grave of 
Hamilton Lindsay. We then filled the pit, leaving as 
little sign of our visit as possible. 

I need not worry the reader with the ghastly de- 
tails of our work after we reached home. Only the 
essential facts need be stated. Gilbert had improved 
upon the trunk idea. He had caused to be made, in 
Kansas City, a box of galvanized iron, with a closely 
fitting lid fastened by a hasp and padlock. He had 
himself inclosed this case in a rough pine box, made 
in the same town, by another workman — such a box 
as is ordinarily used in the shipment of dry-goods or 
clothing. He had shipped it to Schneidervale and, by 
means of the same team we had used to convey the 
body to the house, had brought it home, concealing it 
in the cellar. He had also had the forethought to 
provide a small charcoal furnace, such as tinners use, 


-182 — 


PREPARING THE EVIDENCE. 


with a supply of charcoal, and some soldering irons. 
When we had sufficiently completed the ghastly work, 
he lighted the furnace and soldered the joints where 
the lid came down. We dressed the body in the 
clothes I had worn on the night of my disappearance 
from Janeville, and buried the dead man’s garments 
in the cellar. Then, after resting one day, at ten o’clock 
of the following night, we lifted the box into the wagon 
and left the place. 

It now remained to get over the difficulties incident 
to the shipment of our package. Whenever the nature 
of the freight should be discovered there would be an 
effort, of course, to trace the case back to the point 
of shipment — ordinarily an easy thing to do. The 
smaller the station from which it had been billed out, 
the easier to connect the shipper with the shipment; 
and yet there were reasons why it must be sent from 
an out-of-the-way place. Seven miles north of Schnei- 
dervale is the little town of Gorm. At this place there 
are about seven houses, including the railroad office. 
There is no night-man at the depot and, for that rea- 
son, the box could not be billed out before morning. 
To appear there with a team in broad daylight, would 
be to court a critical examination by the entire popula- 
tion, children included. It was of the utmost impor- 
tance to us that Gilbert should not be seen in connec- 
tion with this transaction, because it would be ex- 
— 183 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


tremely awkward if the shipment should ever be 
traced to him. 

The problem was solved in a very simple manner. 
We drove boldly into Gorm, at two o’clock in the 
morning, when every soul in the place was in bed and 
asleep. We unloaded the box upon the platform and 
drove leisurely back to Schneidervale. We parted in 
the outskirts of the town, Gilbert going to the place 
where he had procured the team, while I went to the 
depot and bought a ticket to Gorm. The northbound 
passenger train, due in Schneidervale at 5:20 A. M., 
carried me to Gorm in twenty minutes. I left the car 
on the side opposite the platform, and instead of enter- 
ing the station, went to a little restaurant across the 
street and ordered breakfast. After breakfast I went 
across and arranged for the shipment of the case to 
Kansas City, prepaying the charges. It would be easy 
to claim the package there, and easy to re-ship it over 
some other line to its final destination. We argued 
that, in the larger business of the freight offices there, 
this one transaction would be as a drop of water in 
the sea, hence there would be little chance of any 
clerk remembering the shipper. I shall not forget the 
scare the agent at Gorm gave me before it was all 
arranged. He got a pot of lamp-black, or some other 
mixture, and was going to mark the box with the 
name of the consignee and the place of destination. I 
— 184 — 


PREPARING THE EVIDENCE. 


begged him to let me attend to that matter, as I was 
particular about such things. Without a word he 
handed me the pot and brush and went inside. I got 
a bit of cardboard at one of the stores, wrote the ad- 
dress on that and nailed it to the case. 

At Kansas City this label was carefully removed 
by us and destroyed, and the case was re-shipped to 
St. Brandan, consigned to Yeatts Yattsinghouser. 
This name was invented by Gilbert. 

'There can be no one,” he explained, "of that name 
in St. Brandan, or anywhere. It would not do to select 
an ordinary name, or even a possible one, for there 
might be some such person, who might get the box. 
Which would not do at all. There must be many 
queer names in the directory of a great city like St. 
Brandan, but surely no such name as 'Yeatts Yatt- 
singhouser.’ ” 

I may as well say here that if the reader consults 
his map as to the location of St. Brandan, he will not 
find what he seeks. My suppression of the real name 
of the place to which our freight was sent may seem, 
to some, like an excess of legal caution, but the habits 
of a lifetime are not to be overcome in a day. The 
reader may, or he may not, be able to guess the true 
name of the town; but a guess has no standingin the 
courts. 

Of course, we separated as soon as this business 
— 185 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


was finished. Gilbert returned to Janeville, and I re- 
turned to the printing office in the southern part of 
the state. The year which followed was an anxious 
one, for me at least. It was about the middle of the 
May following, that I received a little circular, in an 
unsealed envelope. The circular announced a sale of 
unclaimed freight and express packages, on the first 
day of June, at the offices of the J. K. & Z. railroad 
in St. Brandan. On the back of it, written in pencil, 
were these words: 

“Your loins girded, your shoes on your feet, your 
staff in your hand. — Exodus, xiii, 11.” 


— 186 — 


SOLD AT AUCTION. 


CHAPTER XL 

SOLD AT AUCTION. 

On the first day of June I was in Kansas City, in a 
furnished room on Campbell street, wearing, of course, 
my old disguise. Without delay, in a manner previ- 
ously agreed upon, I communicated my address to 
Gilbert. That first day of June was to me a day of 
mental disquiet, so that I did not sleep well until long 
after midnight. Hence it was later than usual when 
I went to my breakfast. I took my meals usually in 
a small restaurant on Main street, almost half a mile 
from my room. Owing to the lateness of the hour, 
not many people were in the place. I sat down at 
the end of a lunch counter. Behind me, between me 
and the door, were a number of tables. At one of 
these tables were a couple of elderly gentlemen lei- 
surely finishing their meal. While I waited for my 
modest order of toast and coffee to be served, I heard 
one of these men say: 

"'Of course, fashions in crime, as in other things. 
Originality in murder is no more the rule than orig- 
inality in dress. A few men and women, with remark- 
— 187 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


able taste in dress, rule the world of fashion. In lit- 
erature, a Samuel Johnson or a Carlyle will, each in 
his generation, determine the style of sentence, or the 
mode of expression, which is to prevail in the world 
of books. So crime has its leaders, its Alberts and 
Eugenies, its Johnsons and its Carlyles. A man hangs 
himself over a barrack-yard gate; immediately five 
other men, one after the other, hang themselves in 
the same place, in the same way. In London a villain 
murders some women in a peculiarly horrible manner; 
at once he has imitators in every great city in the 
world, who butcher women in the same way, as nearly 
as possible. Here is this thing we have just read in 
the papers. Since that English scoundrel killed his 
friend and hid the body in a trunk, the trunk mystery 
has become the fashion, — with a few variations, as in 
this case.’’ 

What his companion answered, I do not know; nor 
did I care to hear what he said, for I felt sure that 
Gilbert’s plan was maturing exactly as he intended. 

I swallowed my coffee, paid my bill, and left the 
place. At the corner of the street I bought the morn- 
ing papers and hurried to my room. I locked the door 
and unfolded the “Times.” This is what I saw on the 
front page: 

— 188 — 


SOLD AT AUCTION. 

GHASTLY FIND. 


REMARKABLE PURCHASE OF A 
ST. BRANDAN MERCHANT. 


Horrible Contents of an Unclaimed Freight Package, 
Purchased at Auction by Mr. Goldschmidt. 


Evidences of a Horrible Crime Committed, Presum- 
ably, in the Neighborhood of Kansas City. 

“St. Brandan, June 1 — For a little more than a year 
a very innocent looking box has been lying unclaimed 
in the freight warehouse of the J. K. & Z. railroad, at 
Cottonwood and Ninth streets. The box appeared to 
be an ordinary affair, made of undressed pine boards. 
The only thing which, to a casual observer, might 
make it remarkable was the name of the consignee, 
written on the outside with an ordinary marking brush, 
^Yeatts Yattsinghouser.’ The railroad company’s rec- 
ords show that the case was shipped from their Kansas 
City offices early in May, 18 — , a little over a year ago. 
No freight charges were prepaid, and no storage fees 
have been received at the warehouse here. A rail- 
road company may sell unclaimed freight packages 
which have remained in their hands unclaimed for six 
months. The J. K. & Z. people, however, have annual 
— 189 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


sales of such stuff, in order to save cost and to prevent 
expensive mistakes. Sometimes it happens, as in this 
case, that goods are held in their possession for more 
than a year. One of the annual sales occurred to-day. 
The packages were, in this instance, sold unopened, 
at auction, to the highest bidder, the purchaser taking 
his chances where there is any doubt as to the nature 
of the contents. Usually the nature of the stuff sold 
is sufficiently indicated by labels on the outside, and 
in the bills of lading, and hence the buyer is able to 
give an intelligent guess as to the value of the goods 
offered. Even where there is nothing to indicate the 
character of the contents of a package, there are 
always people enough willing to risk the experiment 
of buying 'a pig in a poke.’ Therefore, when the case 
bearing the unpronounceable name of 'Yeatts Yatt- 
singhouser’ was offered, there was even more than 
the usual competition among the buyers present, be- 
cause it was a large, prosperous looking box, weigh- 
ing over 200 pounds. In fact, when it was knocked 
down to Mr. Goldschmidt, of 476 South Third street, 
most of his competitors seemed to wish they had 
raised that gentleman’s final and successful bid of 
$11.55. 

''A drayman delivered the box at the purchaser’s 
place of business about four o’clock this afternoon. 
It was something near an hour later when a short, 
— 190 — 


SOLD AT AUCTION. 


bald-headed Hebrew gentleman came rushing out 
from the front door of No. 476 South Third street, 
shouting, or rather screaming: ‘Bolice! Bolice! My 
Gott! Bolice! Bolice! My Gott! Bolice!’ 

“Sergeant O’Brien and Patrolman McGinnis hap- 
pened to be in the neighborhood, and they hurried to 
the place whence the outcries came. The man ap- 
peared to be in a frenzied condition of mind. He con- 
tinued to shout ‘Bolice,’ after the officers arrived. He 
became measurably coherent only when Officer Mc- 
Ginnis threatened to ‘run him in.’ 

“ ‘My name vas Goldschmidt!’ he shouted. Td vas 
murder! Id vas a svindle. My Gott! I sue dot 
r-r-railroat combany! Gott in himmel! Dere vas a 
cor-r-rups in dot box!’ 

“ ‘What box? What box, ye furren lunatic?’ said 
McGinnis. 

“ ‘Come inside,’ said the Sergeant, ‘till we see who 
ye’ve murdered.’ 

“Goldschmidt keeps a second-hand store and his 
stock, if not large, is varied. In the rear of the build- 
ing is a dingy back room, lighted by a very dingy 
window which looks out upon the alley between Wil- 
low and Rush streets. In the middle of this room 
was the case purchased at auction that day by the 
tenant of the premises. It appears that when the box 
was delivered, it was carried to this room by the dray- 
-191 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


men. As soon as he was left alone with his purchase, 
Mr. Goldschmidt set to work to find out what he had 
bought. He removed the top boards and found, very 
much to his surprise, that the wooden box was only 
an outer covering for an inner case of galvanized 
iron, which appeared to be fastened by a hasp and 
padlock. Among the varied articles of his stock in 
trade, Mr. Goldschmidt easily found the implements 
needed to open the lock. He admits that he was feel- 
ing very cheerful about this time, as he felt sure a box 
so carefully secured must contain something of great 
value. After picking the lock he made the further 
discovery that the joints of the iron case, where the 
lid came down, had been carefully soldered. Being 
an economical man, he was anxious not to spoil his 
property. He therefore procured a cold chisel and 
mallet and set to work patiently to loosen the joints. 
He worked nearly an hour in this manner, as he says, 
'Singin’ avay all der vile, to myselluf, like a meadow- 
lark in spring, my Gott!’ 

“When the policemen entered the room, the box was 
open. It contained a corpse in a sitting posture, the 
upper portion bent forward, the knees drawn up, so 
that the head almost rested upon the knees. In the 
space between the upper half of the body and the 
sides and lid of the case were some old pieces of rag 


— 192 — 


SOLD AT AUCTION. 


carpet. In the spaces between the box and the lower 
portion of the body, pieces of patchwork quilt had 
been stuffed. The legs were bound together, above 
and below the knees, by strong pieces of cord, of the 
kind used in tying express packages. The officers, 
after hearing Goldschmidt’s statement, arrested him, 
as a precautionary measure, although it is not prob- 
able that he will be held, as he bears a fair reputation 
in the neighborhood where he lives. The corpse was, 
of course, delivered to the coroner. 

“The body is that of a young man who, in life, must 
have weighed about one hundred and fifty pounds. 
Hair and moustache, reddish brown; small hands and 
feet; teeth smooth and even; color of eyes not easy to 
determine — probably dark gray; white shirt and linen 
collar, both marked G. W. W.; white waistcoat with 
stump of lead pencil in one of the upper pockets; piece 
of watch chain attached to button hole of waistcoat; 
number seven shoes — one slightly worn at the heel — 
had been mended; linen cuffs, fastened with buttons 
with yellow stones — one button cracked; handkerchief 
of linen — cuffs and handkerchief marked G. W. W. 
Contents of pockets : pair of tweezers, knife with buck- 
horn handle, printer’s rule, and a pocket comb. The 
coat worn by the dead man was a black fri)ck; the 
pantaloons were black. In the breast pocket of the 
coat some letters were found, but they were so thor- 
— 193 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


oughly rotted as to be illegible — except that the word 
^George' could be deciphered on one envelope. 

^‘Undoubtedly the man had been murdered. A 
careful examination by the coroner disclosed the fact 
that thejeft arm was broken at the elbow. The left 
leg had sustained a compound fracture; several ribs 
on the left side of the body were broken. Just over 
the heart was an ugly hole evidently made by a pistol 
bullet fired at close range, for the clothing above the 
wound had been on fire. 

“The crime was certainly perpetrated in Kansas 
City, or in its immediate neighborhood, as the case 
was shipped from that point. The care taken in the 
preparation of the body for shipment proves, beyond 
a reasonable doubt, that the murder was the work of a 
gang who had carefully planned every detail in ad- 
vance. Of course, the shipment was made to prevent 
any discovery of the dastardly deed until its perpe- 
trators could make good their escape.” 

The 7 — ’s* account of the affair did not differ 
from the above in any material matter. Each paper 
had some editorial comment on the mystery. I forget 
which political party was in control in Kansas City 
at that time and so I forget which paper it was that 
had the scorching editorial, blaming the mayor and 
the police judge for allowing crimes like that to go 
unpunished. 

— 194 — 



SOLD AT AUCTION. Page 191 




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SOLD AT AUCTION. 


When the ‘S — ’ came out that afternoon, it had nO' 
additions to the St. Brandan end of the sensation, but 
it had worked the Kansas City end for all it was 
worth — which was not much. Among other people 
interviewed were the people at the freight office. 
Nothing came of it. If the extraordinary name of the 
consignee had made any impression on any clerk, or 
other person whose duty it was to write it down any- 
where, the impression had been speedily effaced by 
the necessity of writing some other more or less re- 
markable name immediately afterwards. What is a 
queer name, more or less, in a country with a miscel- 
laneous population like ours? But there was one ar- 
ticle in the evening paper which interested me much. 
I quote it here. 

“A ‘S — ’ reporter met a man this morning, near the 
junction of Main and Delaware streets, who may have 
a clue to the St. Brandan box mystery. The man has 
what he calls a 'general repair shop’ in the basement 
of a building on West Ninth street. He appears to 
be a compound of blacksmith, gunsmith, tinner, gas- 
fitter and cabinet maker. He occupies two rooms of 
the basement. The outer room contains a litter of 
odds and ends — gas-pipe, scraps of iron, broken fur- 
niture, and specimens of tinware out of repair In the 
other rooms, where a gas jet burns even on the bright- 
est days, is a work bench, a small anvil, a charcoal 
— 195 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


furnace, and other implements of the proprietor’s call- 
ing. The owner of this shop is, in all probability, the 
man who made the iron case found in the box at St. 
Brandan. More than a year ago, as far back as Feb- 
ruary, 18 — , the man believes, a man came into the 
shop and asked the proprietor to make an estimate of 
the cost of a galvanized iron box of stated dimensions. 
The only thing about the stranger that the workman 
remembers is that he was a ‘hayseed-looking chap.’ 
The outcome of the visit was that the proprietor made 
a case of galvanized iron, the material being purchased 
elsewhere by the stranger and delivered that day, he 
thinks, from an ordinary farm wagon. When com- 
pleted, it was removed by the same man, in a con- 
veyance of the same kind. The farmer had stated, 
for the benefit of the workman, that the case was 
needed as a sort of safe-deposit for clothes, the ‘hay- 
seed-looking chap’ being a widower, much troubled 
with mice at home. The workman admits that the 
idea seemed a queer one, but he had set it down at 
the time to the well-known peculiarities of ‘hayseeds’ 
as a class. He thinks he might know his customer 
if he should meet him, on account of the ‘Uncle Sam’ 
whiskers he wore. The policeman who can collar 
this venerable granger will probably be very close to 
one of the perpetrators of this crime.” 


-196 — 


SOLD AT AUCTION. 


I will remark here that no policeman was ever lucky 
enough to collar this venerable tiller of the soil. 

I was now much interested to know what Gilbert’s 
next move would be. The papers, next morning, fully 
enlightened me. I insert here a clipping from one of 
them. 

“St. Brandan, June 2 — A claimant for the body of the 
young man found in the box here yesterday has appeared. 
Since the news of Mr. Goldschmidt’s ghastly discovery went 
out on the wings of lightning, the coroner and chief of 
police have received many telegrams from all parts of the 
country, asking for information on various points relating 
to the personal appearance of the dead man. Of all the 
messages received, so far, only one promises to throw 
light on the mystery. It was received by the coroner this 
afternoon, and reads as follows: 

■ “ ‘Janeville, Mo., June 2, 18 — 

“‘Coroner, St. Brandan: 

“ ‘Body found in box positively indentified as G. W. 
Ward, of this place. See newspaper files, October — to 
October — , 18 — . Be there to-morrow.’ 

“ ‘H. C. WARD.” 

''Readers of the 'J — ’ will no doubt remember 
the disappearance of G. W. Ward, a bright young 

newspaper man of county, in the fall of 18 — . As 

the case attracted a good deal of attention at the 
time, it was easy to find accounts of it, with^inute 
descriptions of the missing man, in the files of St. 
Brandan newspapers. It is interesting to compare one 


— 197 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


of these descriptions with that of the box victim, as 
given in yesterday’s ‘J — ” 

Then follow, in parallel columns, the two descrip- 
tions. They need not be repeated here. 

The crisis of our enterprise was now upon us; and it 
was a great comfort to me, when I saw that Gilbert 
was moving wisely — acting just as a bereaved brother 
might be expected to act under the circumstances. 
We had taken our final plunge and were now in for 
whatever must follow. 

A letter, mailed in St. Joseph, reached me that even- 
ing. It contained a cipher message, the purport of 
which was: “Be in St. Brandan June 4. Dine at 
restaurant at No. 715 Aspen street. Watch for me, 
but do not address me there. Follow when I leave 
the place. Do not speak until I give the sign.” 

I got to St. Brandan at eight o’clock on the morn- 
ing of the fourth of June. I bought a morning paper 
at the station. By this time the case had become, to 
reporters and editors, almost ancient history, but the 
affair was, even yet, of sufficient importance to justify 
several headlines — on an inside page. Of all the news- 
paper articles which relate to this case, this one is not 
the least interesting — to me: 

“Many a heart-rending scene has been enacted 
within the grim walls of the old morgue at the corner 
of L and Hemlock streets, but never one more pathetic 
— 198 — 


SOLD AT AUCTION. 


than that witnessed there yesterday morning. Those 
who were present will not quickly forget it. A few 
minutes before ten o’clock twoi carriages drew up to 
the Hemlock street entrance. A heavily veiled wom- 
an, clad in mourning garments, accompanied by two 
gentlemen, alighted from the foremost carriage. The 
lady was Miss Beulah Ward, of Janeville. The gentle- 
men who accompanied her were her brother, Charles 
H. Ward, of Janeville, and the Coroner of St. Bran- 
dan county. The occupants of the second carriage 
were four gentlemen from Janeville, neighbors and 
friends of the Wards. At the door of the morgue the 
Chief of Police of St. Brandan joined the party and 
entered the building with them. 

“Many people have expressed surprise at the re- 
markably good condition of the body. Although the 
flesh is much shrunken, the features must retain much 
of the appearance they bore in life. For some rea- 
sons, which physiologists may understand, the process 
of decay appears to have been arrested, and there is 
no offensive odor. The remains were exposed in the 
morgue in the hope that, even now, it might be pos- 
sible to identify them. 

“The party entered and approached the glazed 
screen behind which are the slabs for the bodies.^ Yes- 
terday morning more than one poor wayfarer occu- 
pied a cot in this ghastly half-way house between sud- 
— 199 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


den death and the potter’s field. There was the man 
who killed himself in a lodging-house near the levee; 
the man who was killed by a bar-tender on Sixth 
street; and the floater found in the river at the foot of 
Plum street. The party halted for a moment before 
the partition of glass which separates the living from 
the dead. 

“ ‘Can you recognize any of these?’ said the cor- 
oner. 

“With only a passing look at the other forms on the 
slabs, the entire party grouped itself in front 
of the body of the box victim. The men, who were a 
little in advance of the woman, seemed to hesitate, 
but the coroner’s question had hardly left his lips, 
when the sister, with a sudden, agonized cry, started 
forward and tore at the woodwork of the glazed par- 
tition with her hands. The strong arm of her brother 
hardly restrained her from dashing herself against the 
screen. 

“‘Let me go!’ she cried, ‘let me go to my poor 
murdered brother! I will go! I will go to him! I 
will go! O merciful God! He was our mother’s dar- 
ling — and they have murdered him ! And she left him 
to our care — and this is the end of it! We have let 
him be murdered! O George, my poor murdered dar- 
ling.’ 

“The agitation of the lady was so painful to witness 
— 200 — 


SOLD AT AUCTION. 


that more than one eye among the spectators was wet. 
It was necessary to remove her. The brother and 
friends positively declare the body is that of George 
William Ward. On account of the sister’s extreme 
agitation it was not considered prudent to let her see 
the garments found upon the murdered man until 
later in the day. Mr. Ward also declined to look at 
them for the present as he wished to accompany his 
sister to the hotel. The other members of the party 
saw the clothing and all recognized them as worn by 
young Ward on the night of his disappearance. One 
of these men follows the business of jeweler at Jane- 
ville. He asked to be allowed to describe the cuff- 
buttons before they were shown to him. He described 
them very minutely, and it was found that his descrip- 
tion was correct in every particular. 

“In the afternoon Mr. Ward and his sister returned. 
The lady was still much agitated, but was evidently 
making a great effort to face this most trying ordeal. 
Each of them carefully described the clothing before 
seeing it. Each of them described it correctly — the 
woman adding some little details which had been over- 
looked by the others. Down to the most trifling de- 
tail, her description was found to be correct. The 
body will be surrendered to the Wards to-day.” 

These quiet, reserved people were forever surprising 


- 201 - 




MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 

their most intimate acquaintances. Beulah had al- 
ways seemed to me as cold and passionless as an ice- 
berg. If nature had endowed her with great personal 
beauty she might have been the greatest actress of 
her time, had she cared to seek distinction of that kind. 

For economical and other reasons, I did not wish 
to go to any hotel. Having a good part of the fore- 
noon at my disposal, I spent the time seeking a fur- 
nished room, suitable to my means. When I found 
what I wanted I paid a week’s rent and took posses- 
sion immediately, remaining there until the time came 
to keep my appointment with Gilbert. 

He was seated at one of the tables when I entered 
the place, but I did not go near him. He gave me 
time to get my dinner before he left the restaurant, 
leaving the room a little in advance of me. On the 
street I followed him at the distance of half a block. 
He led the way until he reached the entrance of the 
big bridge over the river. He went out upon the struc- 
ture until he was over one of the great piers in the 
middle of the stream. At each pier there is, on either 
side of the bridge, a triangular space where the road- 
way widens out toward the ends of the masonry. There 
the foot-passenger may stand aside, well out of the 
way of others, and enjoy a splendid view of the city, 
the river, and the shipping industry. If he will stand 


— 202 — 


SOLD AT AUCTION. 


with his back to the iron railing, he may see all who 
cross from either side. At one of these places Gilbert 
waited for me. The position was well chosen, be- 
cause, of course, no one could approach us unseen, 
and so no one could possibly overhear what we might 
say if we did not wish to be heard. 


— 203 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


CHAPTER XIL 

UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES. 

^Tt is a great pleasure to meet you,” he said, as I 
came up, “but we must deny ourselves the luxury of 
shaking hands. The enthusiasm proper to all family 
reunions must be repressed here — for prudential rea- 
sons. Glad to see that you look well.” 

“You also appear to be quite well,” I replied. “I 
think I never saw you looking better.” 

“As well, no doubt, as any man could hope to be, 
considering what I have gone through — since my 
brother disappeared last year. But you must be anx- 
ious for news of your wife, and it’s very inconsiderate 
of me to keep you waiting — after so long a separation. 
By the way, have you read the morning papers?” 

“Of course,” I replied. 

“Of course — of course. You would naturally be in- 
terested in the newspapers, being a newspaper man 
yourself, to say nothing of other reasons. Well then, 
you must know that your wife has just passed through 
a very painful and trying ordeal. She stood it all 
right, you know — bless her heart, she passed through 
the ordeal and still lives to remember it.” 

“Give her my compliments,” I said, “and say I have 
— 20i — 


UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES. 


no words to express my admiration of her conduct. 
I have an experience vouchsafed to few men, I think. 
I not only know how I shall look when I am dead, 
but I know how the mourners will act at the funeral.’’ 

'‘You know how you will look certainly. If all goes 
well, you may also know how your tombstone will 
look — if you care to go to see it. For I expect to do 
the right thing, in the monumental way, by my dear 
deceased brother. You may like to know that there 
will be a church funeral, at the meeting house, where 
your old friend, the Baptist minister, will officiate. I 
wish you could be there — and so does Beulah; but 
maybe you ought not to come, for fear of accidents.” 

“I do not want to be there, thank you. I believe I 
have had all the post mortem sensations I want. How 
are things going? Have you got possession of the 
body?” 

“No, but it is all settled. I am to have an order 
for it this afternoon. I have nothing particular to say 
to you at this meeting, but I wished to show you this 
place. The truth is we must not meet too often, be- 
cause the necessity of seeing each other occasionally 
may prove a weak point in our case. So far, I have 
no reason to believe that I have been watched — but 
we are dealing with shrewd people who are-not to 
be trifled with. But if ever a conference is necessary, 
we can meet here without any danger of being over- 
— 205 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


heard, and with a fair chance of spotting any spy who 
may follow me. I will take your St. Brandan address, 
so that if I need you I can find you. If all goes well, 
I shall leave to-night for home on the St. Joseph and 
St. Brandan express. Be around the station, if you 
like, but do not come near our party. Just be on 
hand — in case of an emergency.” 

We stayed there some time longer, perfecting our 
arrangements for the adjustment of all financial mat- 
ters after payment of the insurance money. However, 
as that must be a matter of some uncertainty, for vari- 
ous reasons, the very best we could do was to devise 
means to communicate with each other as often as 
might be necessary. 

And now I come to a part of this story which I 
should hesitate to relate if the facts, as I state them, 
could not easily be verified from the files of the news- 
papers of that period. Many times I have heard that 
fact is stranger than fiction. I used to be a little in- 
credulous as to the truth of that venerable maxim, 
but that was long ago. I happen to be one of the 
men now living who have seen the proverb verified. 
At least, I have met with no story in fiction that is 
stranger than the cold fact with which I was face to 
face shortly after this interview with Gilbert on the 
St. Brandan bridge. 

I went to the station that evening, but Gilbert and 
— 206 — 


UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES. 


his party did not come. I went again next morning, 
but they did not appear. Then I bought a newspaper, 
which enlightened me as to the cause of their absence. 
Here is a part of what I read: 

“There appears to be no end of sensation in the matter 
of Mr. Goldschmidt’s now famous freight package. A sen- 
sational murder, a sensational mode of disposing of the vic- 
tim’s corpse, a sensational discovery of the same, and a sen- 
sational identification of the body. Now comes a sensa- 
tional counter-claim, to be followed, it would seem, by a sen- 
sational contest for the remains in the courts. 

“After the highly dramatic scene at the morgue, when 
Miss Ward recognized the body of her brother, everybody, 
the officials included, thought the question of identity was 
settled for all time. Arrangements had been made to turn 
the dead man over to the relatives. Mr. Charles Ward had 
arranged with an undertaker to prepare the corpse for 
shipment, and to provide all that was needed for the inter- 
ment in the family burying ground at Janeville. At the 
last moment he was stopped by the coroner, who told him 
another claimant had appeared and that, under the circum- 
stances, the shipment must be delayed until the matter is 
clearly settled.” 

The reporter for the newspaper had managed to 
procure copies of the telegrams which follow. The 
first was dated from a town in Kentucky, and was ad- 
dressed to the coroner. It read: 

“Body found in box positively indentified as that of G. 
W. Wickham, of this place. Proof positive. HoldTemains. 
Relative now on the way to prove claim. 

“JAS. T. WICKHAM.” 

— 207 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 

To this message the coroner had immediately re- 
plied: 

“Body already indentified by parties in Missouri. Proof 
absolutey convincing. Shall surrender it to-day. 

“LAWRENCE BRADY, 

“Coroner, St. Brandan.” 

Shortly before three o’clock that afternoon the cor- 
oner received a visit from a lawyer named Scantling, 
who had in his hand a telegram addressed to the 
law firm of McQuirk, Connigle & Scantling. He 
showed it to the coroner. It was from James T. Wick- 
ham, and directed the firm to take legal steps to pre- 
vent removal of the body, giving also the First Na- 
tional Bank of St. Brandan as a reference. At the 
bank Mr. Scantling had learned that Mr. Wickham 
was a banker in the town from which the message was 
sent, and also that he was a member of a very old, 
very rich, and very aristocratic family of the blue- 
grass region. The reference might have added, I am 
firmly convinced, that he was a very obstinate, purse- 
proud, stiff-necked old man, who would go to law 
from a sheer love of litigation, caring more to win his 
point than for any principle involved. I have never 
been able to make up my mind fully on the question of 
this old man’s honesty. There may have been some 
deep, wicked scheme back of the whole affair, but ii 
he really believed the body was that of his nephew, 
— 208 — 


UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES. 


I am thoroughly persuaded that he litigated the case, 
not because he loved his nephew, but because it did 
not comport with the family dignity to have one of 
the Wickhams interred away from the family burying 
ground. Throughout the whole affair, I never saw 
him exhibit the slightest sign of emotion. It is amaz- 
ing to think of the trouble and annoyance which can 
be caused by one hard-headed old man with money to 
back him. 

It was easy for the lawyer to persuade the coroner 
to await the arrival of the new claimant, who was ex- 
pected to arrive that evening. 

Here was an awkward complication. I did not be- 
lieve the man from Kentucky could seriously endanger 
our possession of the remains, yet delay was danger- 
ous to us for many reasons. Then, if this new claim- 
ant should really be able to throw doubt on the iden- 
tity of the box victim, it might weaken our case in 
the courts, if ever we should be compelled to sue for 
our rights. The rascally corporations would be awake 
and vigilant. It was not to be supposed that they 
would miss any reasonably good opportunity to defeat 
our claims, or to force a compromise from us. It is 
characteristic of them that they are far more willing 
to receive a premium than to pay a loss. _ 

Not strange that I should be restless and uneasy, 
anxious to do something, without knowing very well 
— 209 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


what. I went to niy lodgings in the hope of finding 
there some communication from Gilbert. Finding 
none, I went, in spite of the risk, to the Coroner’s of- 
fice at the city hall. There I learned two things that 
interested me. One was that the new claimant had 
arrived. The other was that the coroner, who was 
also a practicing physician, had a private office in 
which he would give both parties a hearing at ten 
o’clock that morning. I procured the address and 
went to the place, arriving about thirty minutes before 
the time set. I was so fortunate as to find the official 
alone in his office. I boldly entered, and told him I 
was a private agent of the Golgotha Life Insurance 
Company of Boston; that our company had issued a 
policy on the life of a man named Wickham, of Elder- 
berg, Kentucky, and that they had asked me to be 
present at the investigation. I also asked to be al- 
lowed to remain unseen by the others, if it could be 
managed. I suppose it was lucky for me that the 
coroner was very busy that morning — too busy to ob- 
serve that I had not even introduced myself by the 
production of a business card. I am sure I do not 
know what I should have done or said, if he had 
asked me for any credentials to corroborate my state- 
ment. Anyhow, I got permission to remain in an in- 
ner room where, by drawing a curtain which screened 


— 210 - 


UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES. 


the door of communication, I could see and hear with* 
out being seen or heard. 

The new claimant, with his attone}^, appeared first. 
Mr. Wickham was a tall old man, who wore a soft, 
wide-brimmed hat, and carried a gold-headed cane. 
He had dark, fiery, wicked-looking eyes, and he had a 
long beard which came almost to his waist. This 
beard was gray, for the most part, but there were 
threads of black in it. Similar threads were in his 
hair. He had long, bushy eyebrows, but the brows 
were black, with streaks of white. He limped when 
he walked, and he had a scar on his forehead. I have 
since learned that he had been a major in a cavalry 
regiment, in the time of the Civil war. His limp was 
the result of a bullet wound, received while obstin- 
ately holding an untenable position, contrary to the 
advice of his subordinates. The scar on his forehead 
was a memento of a heated political argument with a 
Yankee colonel, at Mobile, in the reconstruction days. 
Pride, obstinacy and a violent temper were written 
all over him, from the crown of his head to the soles 
of his feet. The moment I saw him, I felt we should 
have trouble with him. He claimed the body as that 
of his nephew, who had somehow managed to disap- 
pear, about the time I left Janeville. 

Then there was the lawyer. I suppose I ought to 
describe Scantling, if only to satisfy the curiosity of 
— 211 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


those who may be interested in the study of female 
caprice. I had, at the time, an aversion to him — an 
instinctive aversion — I am sure; yet I am bound to 
admit he was not at all bad looking. He was a broad- 
shouldered man of medium height, had a prominent 
forehead, dark hair and dark eyes — very bright, alert 
eyes, which seemed made to see into, and through, 
things. He had a good mouth, a firm, square chin, 
and a Roman nose. Altogether, I am bound to say, a 
strong, clean-looking, fearless, capable man. On the 
day of our final hearing in court, I heard a woman 
say he was the kind of man to inspire people with con- 
fidence. I suppose she meant female people. I can- 
not say that he inspired me with confidence, at any 
time. 

Gilbert, Beulah, and our friends from Janeville, en- 
tered shortly after the others. I found myself regret- 
ting that our side had no lawyer. As soon as they 
were seated, the coroner announced his readiness to 
proceed. He began by reminding them that this was 
in no sense a judicial proceeding. He had brought 
them there, face to face, because he was most anx- 
ious that no wrong should be done to any of the 
claimants. Altogether, he said, it was a very sad busi- 
ness, but, unfortunately, not so unusual as they might 
suppose. Cases of mistaken identity were common 
enough. Very few people, it seemed to him, were 
— 212 — 


UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES. 


aware of the astonishing number of instances where 
people, in no degree related to each other by blood, 
have been found to resemble each other so closely as to 
puzzle their most intimate friends. He said that death 
sometimes seems to create resemblances where none 
were discoverable before. In the particular case now 
in hand, he had decided to ask the last claimant to 
give such description of the body as he could, before 
seeing it. Also he would ask him to try if he could 
identify the clothing and other articles, among a mis- 
cellaneous lot of similar articles. This was not be- 
cause he questioned the honesty of Major Wickham, 
but because he wished to be fair to all concerned. 

The lawyer said he trusted that no question of sin- 
cerity would be raised. He sincerely wished that his 
client might be mistaken in the matter, for then he 
might reasonably hope the nephew was still alive. No 
objection could be made to the very reasonable plan 
of procedure proposed by the coroner, but he wished 
to inquire if like precautions had been taken in the 
case of the other claimants. 

The coroner informed him that the other claimants 
had published more than a year ago, in the newspa- 
pers, a very minute description of their brother — a 
description which had been widely published, and 
which he, the coroner, had seen and read before Mr. 


- 213 - 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


Ward and his sister appeared to claim the remains. 
Also there was, at that time, no other claimant. 

Mr. Scantling then said that, with the coroner’s per- 
mission, he would read another printed description, al- 
so published some months ago — relative to the miss- 
ing Mr. Wickham. In the case of his client’s nephew, 
the disappearance had not been quite so sensational 
as in the other. A rather commonplace affair, and a 
very ordinary one, unfortunately. A young man had 
left his home to seek his fortune in a Western city, 
taking along with him a considerable sum of money. 
One postal card, received by his relatives in Kentucky, 
contained the last information concerning him, from 
the date of his arrival in Kansas City to the present 
time. His friends, for a long time had not been un- 
easy, supposing him to be careless about vmting; but 
at last an elder brother went to seek him. The results 
of the search might be gathered from the clipping he 
was about to read, being an extract from a Kansas 
City newspaper. 

I cannot reproduce this extract, because I have no 
copy of it. It related the story of the young man’s 
leaving home and the search subsequently made for 
him by his friends. They traced him to one of the 
leading hotels where he spent a couple of days 
after his arrival. It told that he disappeared from the 
hotel — leaving his trunk. It seems that his brother, 
— 214 — 


UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES. 

after examining the clothes in his trunk, was able, 
from a previous knowledge of the young man's ward- 
robe, and from the recollections of the hotel people, to 
give a tolerably accurate description of the clothes he 
wore when last seen. Then followed a minute de- 
scription of young Mr. Wickham’s person. 

I never understood until then how very unsatisfac- 
tory a written description of a man must be. In this 
case, item for item, the catalogue of young Wickham’s 
personal peculiarities, if it be right to call them pecu- 
liarities, tallied exactly with the catalogue of mine. 

But the thing which took my breath away, was the 
account of the young man’s wearing apparel. It was 
a very complete duplicate of the list of my own per- 
sonal belongings, to the minutest detail. Even the 
linen was marked with the initials G. W. W., and the 
cuff buttons were exactly like mine — except as to the 
flawed stone and the marks of repair. The reader 
need not take my word for it, the newspaper files of 
the time will, as I have said, amply corroborate my 
statements. If I were asked to explain it, my reply 
would be: “1 cannot.” 

And now, for the space of an hour, one surprise fol- 
lowed fast upon the heels of another. When the cor- 
oner asked Major Wickham if his nephew would have 
a printer’s rule in his pocket, the old gentleman said: 


— 215 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


might, sir. He edited a weekly paper in Louis- 
ville just before he went West.” 

Asked if his nephew had, to his knowledge a pocket 
knife, he replied that he had himself presented the 
young man with a knife before he went away. And 
he described a pocket knife with a buck-horn handle, 
exactly as the one I owned had been described in the 
papers. 

Asked if he would undertake to pick out his neph- 
ew’s wearing apparel from a lot of other clothing, he 
said that, if allowed to refresh his memory by con- 
sulting a memorandum furnished by his wife, before 
he left home, he thought he could select every article. 
When the coroner apologized for the strictness of the 
precautions he felt bound to take, the Major said: 

“My dear sir, I can only repeat what my lawyer has 
said. You can do me no greater service than to prove 
that I am mistaken in this matter.” 

The coroner got up and drew aside a heavy curtain 
which screened a window recess on one side of the 
room, revealing a table on which were numerous ar- 
ticles, grim mementoes of other tragedies with which 
the coroner had been connected officially. Hats, coats, 
waistcoats, pantaloons, and other articles of male 
wearing apparel, some of which were old, some new, 
some cheap, others costly. Many of them were stained 
with mud or discolored by water. There were purses, 
— 216 — 


UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES. 


handkerchiefs, pocket-knives, tooth-brushes, combs, 
lead pencils, eye-glasses, keys, pistols. I noticed there 
a set of false teeth, some poker chips, and a pocket 
Bible. 

With great deliberation. Major Wickham selected 
from the heap of clothing every article found on the 
body of the man in the box. Moreover, he picked 
out the pocket knife and the cuff buttons. All these 
things he positively declared he recognized as the 
property of his nephew. At this point Beulah inter- 
rupted the proceedings. 

“You wicked, wicked old man!” she cried. “Oh, 
Mr. Coroner, pardon me if I seem to be rude. But 
you must see that this is a vile conspiracy to rob me 
of my poor brother’s body. You know that all these 
things were positively identified by me, before I had 
even had a chance to see them. But thousands of 
people have seen them since. No wonder he wanted 
a list — a memorandum, to refresh his memory. A 
hundred people could have similar papers. It is 
shameful. It is all a conspiracy on the part of the 
insurance people. O Charles, tell them to keep their 
money, and give me my poor murdered boy!” 

There was some confusion after this speech. Gil- 
bert caught Beulah and forced her to sit down. The 
Major stared at her in speechless indignatiom One 
of the men from Janeville said: 

— 217 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


“Right she is, by Jinks! Fire 'em out of the win- 
der!" 

The coroner called for order, and commanded the 
Janeville man to leave the room. Mr. Scantling then 
made a short speech in which he protested against any 
insinuations affecting his client. While Major Wick- 
ham was a comparative stranger, he had come to him 
so well recommended that he was willing to vouch for 
his perfect honesty and good faith. When he was 
through Gilbert said: 

“I think it will not be hard for those who know the 
facts, to understand that my sister’s nerves must be 
somewhat shaken — under the circumstances. I think 
she does not wish to be unjust or unkind, but it may 
be well for us all to try to understand how all this 
must look to her. This dead man was our brother. 
Of that we have not even the shadow of a doubt. 
What has been brought out by this gentleman and his 
lawyer, is very remarkable; but I am willing to be- 
lieve that this strange resemblance in clothing and so 
forth is nothing more than a strange coincidence — a 
very remarkable one, the most remarkable in history 
perhaps. For my sister I will say that, from child- 
hood, her characteristic fault has been incredulity. 
Surely some allowance can be made, in the case of a 
person not naturally credulous, if she is not prepared 
to believe, at a moment’s notice, in all these wonderful 
— 218 — 


UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES. 


accidents. She is not a trained reasoner — like this 
legal gentleman.’’ 

The coroner adjourned the meeting, pending a visit 
to the morgue by Major Wickham. 

I was again in my place behind the curtain some 
minutes before the proceeding was resumed. The 
final surprise of a most astounding series of surprises 
awaited me. The moment the parties re-entered the 
office, I saw the coroner was worried and perplexed. 
He said: 

‘This is certainly the most extraordinary thing that 
ever happened in this world. Major Wickham, are 
you sure — quite sure you are not mistaken?” 

‘T would give a thousand dollars if I were not sure. 
It is the body of my unfortunate nephew, sir. He is 
my brother’s son. I don’t mind saying — there are no 
reporters about — that I am not surprised at his death. 
He was — well he was a little wild, poor fellow — and 
of course he got into bad company and — and they 
murdered him. But he’s my nephew, sir, and I’ll 
spend the last dollar I have, before I give him up.” 

In rendering his decision, the coroner took what 
must have been, for him, the easiest road out of a very 
perplexing situation. Before the coming of Mr. Wick- 
ham he had virtually delivered the body over to Gil- 
bert. He chose therefore to regard Gilbert as the 
man in possession. He admitted that it was not easy 
— 219 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


for him to decide the question to his own entire satis- 
faction. Major Wickham had surely made out a 
strong case, but not so strong as to justify the author- 
ities in disturbing the possession of the first claimants. 

This was well enough, but one look at the stub- 
born countenance of the Major convinced me the mat- 
ter would not end there. I was not mistaken. Gilbert, 
with the aid of the undertaker previously mentioned, 
had got the body ready for shipment by five o’clock 
that afternoon; but by that time a judge of one of the 
courts, sitting in chambers, had issued a temporary 
injunction, at the suit of Major Wickham, forbidding 
the removal of the body from the city. 

Gilbert, acting by the advice of a lawyer, gave bond, 
with proper legal penalties, to produce the remains, 
when so ordered by the court, as well as for the pay- 
ment of all costs and damages which might be ad- 
judged against him. The Judge accepted our Jane- 
ville friends as bondsmen, all of them being solvent 
enough. This part of the business may have been a 
little loose, but I suppose the court considered that 
the body should be buried as soon as possible. All 
this was finished in time for Gilbert and his party to 
leave on the nine o’clock train that evening. 


— 220 — 


1A TROUBLED CONSCIENCE, 


CHAPTER XIIL 

A TROUBLED CONSCIENCE. 

I decided not to leave St. Brandan until after June 
21, the date set for the final hearing of the injunction 
suit. I made arrangements with the publisher of a 
weekly newspaper to solicit advertisements — on com- 
mission. Very dreary, up-hill work, in the hot June 
weather, but it was surely better than idleness. I 
made enough, counting one day with another, to pay 
living expenses. 

There came a day when I did not work — the day 
when I received a marked copy of my old newspaper, 
the “Janeville Banner.” My friend, the original owner 
of that journal, had evidently made as much as he 
could, with his limited ability, of the sensational events 
already related. In the copy sent me he had described, 
at great length, the arrival of the funeral party at 
Janeville, the elaborate and solemn services at the 
church, and the final sensation that poor body was 
destined to cause, before it could be finally consigned 
to the earth whence it was taken. These are the 
facts, as I condense them from the editor’s account: 

“At the conclusion of the very eloquent andTouch- 
ing funeral discouse, delivered by the Reverend Mr. 

— 221 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


Wymore, the people present were invited to approach 
and take a last look at their distinguished fellow- 
townsman. At this point a very painful and very dis- 
tressing incident occurred. Among those who went 
to gaze, for the last time, on the cold, still features 
of the dead, was Miss Judith Wymore, daughter of the 
officiating minister. There is, we are sure, no impro- 
priety in saying now, that a very warm attachment 
existed between the young lady and the deceased in 
his lifetime. The fact that they were betrothed is an 
open secret. To say the young lady was much dis- 
tressed when the young man disappeared, is merely to 
do justice to her sweet and loving nature. She has 
always persisted in saying he was alive, even when it 
was clear to the most of us that our dear friend had 
been foully murdered. Yesterday she was among the 
last of those who walked in sad procession by the 
flower-laden bier. She paused by the side of the cas- 
ket and looked long and earnestly at the face of the 
dead. All at once, to the astonishment of all present, 
she cried out: 

“ ‘No, no! It is not he! Gracious heaven, it is not 
George Ward at all! Oh, Mr. Ward, you have been 
deceived! This dead man is not your brother!’ 

“So great was her agitation, she would have fallen, 
if her father had not caught her in his arms. She was 
removed from the church and conveyed to her home. 

— 222 — 


A TROUBLED CONSCIENCE. 


“Naturally her words and actions created great ex- 
citement. Many of those who had passed the coffin 
came back again, and there was much confusion. It 
was sometime before, through the quiet exertions of 
some of the more thoughful, order was restored, so 
that the services could be concluded. The body was 
carried out to the beautiful cemetery near the town 
and laid to rest. Peace to his ashes! 

“The distressing scene above described, while very 
painful, is perhaps not unexplainable, but we do not 
presume to offer here the explanation which occurs to 
us. For the sake of all concerned we wish, with all 
our heart, the statement so dramatically uttered might 
be true. Unfortunately there is no room to doubt 
that she is mistaken. Miss Wymore is the only one of 
those present in the church yesterday who doubts the 
body is that of George Ward. Charles and Beulah 
Ward, while much distressed at the incident, have 
nothing but the warmest words of sympathy for the 
young lady, who, in her brief sojourn here, has won 
all our hearts by her grace of manner and kindheart- 
edness. 

“A reporter for the 'Banner' called at the home of 
Mr. Wymore late yesterday evening. He is naturally 
much distressed, but he declared that he could offer 
no explanation of his daughter's conduct. ‘Slfe still 
insists that her statement is true,' he said, ‘but re- 
— 223 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


fuses to give any reasons for her belief. Words fail to 
express my feelings. She has always been a sensible 
girl — not in the least hysterical. I do not understand 
it.’ 

Here was a new complication. If this incident 
had been reported in the daily newspapers, we might 
expect that the Wickham party would have Judith in 
court if possible; and their case would be strengthened 
by so much as her opinion might be worth, in the mind 
of a disinterested judge. Disquieting, certainly, but it 
was not the reading of that article which caused me 
to send a telephone message to the office where I 
worked, asking to be excused from duty that day on 
account of sickness. There was another news item in 
the “Banner,” not marked, an item which caused me 
more real suffering in a few hours, than all I have 
ever read, in prose or rhyme. It is worthy of the 
careful consideration of the feeling reader: 

“The many friends and admirers of Miss Judith Wy- 
more will rejoice to learn that she has recently fallen 
heir to an estate in Virginia, to the value of more than 
one hundred thousand dollars. The greater portion 
of the property is land, but there is now on hand the 
snug sum of $10,000 in cash, in one of the banks of 
Richmond, which will be subject to her order as soon 
as a few preliminary matters are arranged. The estate 
comes to the lady from her maternal grandfather, the 
— 224 — 


A TROUBLED CONSCIENCE. 


late Colonel Henderson Stapley, of Henrico County, 
Va. We most heartily congratulate Miss Wymore. 
Nobody deserves better luck.” 

I walked about the streets for a while, aimlessly, 
like a man in a dream. I felt that I had received a 
blow, a terrible, crushing blow, but, as yet, it did not 
hurt. I took a car and went out to one of the parks. 
Something, some sort of measured jangle in the hum- 
ming of the cable, suggested to my mind a rhyme of 
Walter Scott: 

“O what a tangled web we weave, 

When first we practise to deceive!” 

All the way out, the cable and the car wheels 
seemed to sing these words or keep time to them. In 
the park I sat down near a fountain ; the water rippled 
and splashed to the words, “O what a tangled web we 
weave, when first we practise to deceive.” A bumble- 
bee, hovering over a gorgeous bed of flowers, seemed 
to sing bass to the fountain’s treble, “O what a tangled 
web we weave, when first we practise to deceive.” 

I wanted to think — to fathom, if possible, the pit 
into which I had fallen; but I could not adjust my 
mind to any coherent thinking. I caught myself re- 
peating aloud, “O what a tangled web we weave, when 
first we practise to deceive.” I fell into a sort of 
reverie about Walter Scott’s poetry. Strange to say, 
I could think about that. I tried to remember when 
— 225 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


and where I had last read “Marmion.” “What’s Mar- 
mion to me, or I to Marmion?” I said. I recalled 
other lines by the same author — rhymes which cer- 
tainly I had never committed to memory; and, for a 
while, fountain and summer wind and bumble-bee 
sang, “Where shall the lover rest, he, the deceiver, 
who could win maiden’s breast, ruin and leave her?” 
Not applicable to anything in my life, thank Heaven. 
“In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, where 
mingles war’s rattle with the groans of the dying.” 
Queer mental condition, was it not, to be unable to 
dismiss these words from my mind? And why should 
I be annoyed by them? And why should I find some- 
thing ominous in them? “Lost battle — ” 

I was not superstitious, but I could not avoid the 
thought that perhaps that phrase, “lost battle,” might 
have in it some prophetic reference to the result of 
that legal battle soon to be fought in the court. Lost 
battle? One battle I had lost. At least there was one 
victory which had almost been mine, and I had not 
won it. I had stood, so to speak, upon the threshold 
of immeasurable happiness; but I had turned away, 
closing the door with my own hand. “Where shall 
the traitor rest, he, the deceiver — ” No, I was no 
traitor. When I wooed her and won her love, I loved 
her. I loved her now. And I had thrown her love 
away for a paltry sum of money. It was the mockery 
— 226 — 


A TROUBLED CONSCIENCE. 


of Satan to read to-day that she was rich. She was 
sweet, gentle, innocent, refined, cultured — a pure, 
good woman, as ever God made. I had thrown her 
away; and now the figures of her bank account came 
and stared me in the face. Ten thousand dollars, in 
cold cash, subject to her draft — much more than I 
could hope to clear from this wretched affair in which 
I was engaged. Do not misjudge me, dear reader. 
Remember, I loved her v/hen she was poor! If she 
had been before me, at that moment, poor as when 
first I knew her, I should gladly have made her my 
wife — if it had been in my power. But when I began 
to think — ^for I could think now, at last — how I had 
cast in my lot with Gilbert, and peril, and possible 
dishonor, all for a few paltry dollars — ^when I began 
to think of the devilish pit dug for my feet by my cun- 
ning companions in sin, and when I remembered that 
money had been the cause of it all, I could almost 
believe I heard the devil laugh. 

I had desperate ideas of extricating myself from the 
wretched quagmire of sin in which I wallowed. I 
thought of going to this dear girl, that I might throw 
myself unreservedly on her mercy and forbearance. 
Why not? Why not break away from this infamous 
connection and return to the woman who loved me? 
But then the questions arose: ^What of Beulah, my 


— 227 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 

wife? What would she and her satanic brother say to 
all that?” 

All that forenoon I sat there, utterly crushed, heart- 
broken. At last there came into my mind something 
that was like a glimmer of hope, so that I managed 
to reason myself into a little better frame of mind. 
“Suppose,” I said to myself, “this present business is 
brought to a successful end— to any end short of ex- 
posure and ruin. In either event Beulah and Gilbert 
would be glad enough to be quit of me. I began even 
to perceive a merit in the somewhat lax divorce laws 
of my native state, a beauty that I had never observed 
before. 

“There will be,” I -said, “difficulties, of course. I 
can never, for instance, bear the name I bore in Jane- 
ville; but the only thing to regret about that will be 
the necessity of explaining to Judith how my name 
happens to be Michael Carmichael, instead of George 
William Ward. Yet even that should be possible, and 
then — ^then I will marry her, and we will go to her 
estate in Virginia. I will manage her property and if, 
after all, I should realize a little on this present busi- 
ness, the money will come in handy. It will be better 
perhaps not to be altogether dependent upon my wife’s 
bounty — though she would share her last penny with 
me, bless her heart!” 

These reflections were certainly pleasant enough, 
— 228 — 


A TROUBLED CONSCIENCE. 


and they did not seem unreasonable. There was the 
disturbing thought that, inasmuch as Gilbert and 
Beulah must know of the inheritance, it behooved me 
to walk warily before them. Rapacious and sordid 
themselves, they might easily suspect like faults in me, 
and hence be suspicious of me. Perhaps also, this 
business once over, they would want to share with me 
what they might call the ^‘spoils” of this other affair; 
but here I was determined to be resolute. They 
should not pillage Judith while I lived. 

It was noon when I left the park. All through my 
meditations, the words of the squire’s song in “Mar- 
mion” haunted me. For the last half hour it was the 
grim conclusion of it, that insisted on being heard. I 
could hardly avoid quoting it aloud on the street-car. 

“Her wing shall the eagle flap, 

O’er the false hearted; 

His warm blood the wolf shall lap, 

E’er life be parted: 

Shame and dishonor sit, 

By his grave ever, 

Blessing shall hallow it. 

Never — O never!” 

'Talse hearted!” I muttered. “In this case the false 
hearted are those who have entrapped me into this 
shameful position and, in cold blood, have robbed me 
of the woman I love, as noble, generous and'free- 


— 229 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


hearted a woman as walks the earth. If the wolf laps 
anybody’s blood — ” 

On the evening of the twentieth of June, our wit- 
nesses arrived at the union station. I was there, but 
made no attempt to speak to Gilbert, feeling sure he 
would let me know if there should be any occasion 
for a conference. I was not foolish enough to follow 
him to his hotel, nor did I expect he would send any 
message to my lodging; but, by way of experiment, 
I went to our former place of meeting on the bridge. 
He did not come, though I waited there several hours. 
I was disappointed, because I wished to ask his advice 
as to whether I should attend the trial. 

Next morning it seemed to me that I could not pos- 
sibly keep away from the court. It was certainly not 
a time for rash experiments, but I had a good deal of 
confidence in the completeness of my disguise. True, 
I had never worn it in the presence of any of the Jane- 
ville people, but I thought, if I could avoid coming 
near any of them, the risk would not be very great. It 
would be useless for me to go to work, in my present 
state of mind, and the idea of remaining shut up in 
my room was hardly to be endured. If I did not at- 
tend the trial I could not know the result of it that day. 
I would have to wait for the announcement in to- 
morrow’s papers. 

I closed and locked the door of the room and hung 
— 230 — 


'A TROUBLED CONSCIENCE. 

my hat over the key-hole. I closed the shutters, drew 
the blinds, and lighted the gas. I removed my false 
hair and examined myself attentively in the glass. 
Then I resumed my disguise and took another long 
and searching look. Assuredly there was little in the 
disguised face that resembled the late editor of the 
‘'Janeville Banner.” I believed that, by mingling with 
the crowd, keeping well aloof from all who knew me, 
taking my place in some obscure corner of the court 
room I should be perfectly safe. I was there before 
the court opened. As I did not think it prudent to 
enter the place before it was well filled, I sauntered 
about the corridors of the building, waiting for the 
arrival of the plaintiff and defendant with their wit- 
nesses. When I saw Gilbert and Beulah, with our 
Janeville friends, ascending the stairs, I prudently 
turned my back until they entered the courtroom. As 
I had no fears of being recognized by the other party, 
and as I had some natural curiosity to see the wit- 
nesses, I was near the head of the stairs when they ap- 
proached. Major Wickham and Mr. Scantling came 
first, then followed several men and three women. One 
of these, as I afterwards learned, was Mrs. Wickham, 
wife of the Major, and aunt by marriage to the miss- 
ing young man. There was an old Negro woman, 
who in the proceedings that day was called to testify 
about the clothing and other articles involved in the 
- 231 - 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


question of identity. There was, also, a woman whose 
face I could not see; she was closely veiled, and leaned 
upon the arm of the elder lady. I guessed this might 
be either a sister of the betrothed of young Wickham. 
Naturally this interested me and with the curiosity nat- 
ural to youth I was anxious, if possible, to get a nearer 
view of her. Other idle fellows about the corridor 
had evidently the same desire, for almost before I 
was aware of it I was foremost of a group which 
crpwded close to the door of the court room when the 
party approached it. The veiled lady walked with her 
eyes cast down, until the proximity, as I suppose, of 
the crowd of idlers, caused her to look up. She 
raised her head, stopped, gave a spasmodic clutch at 
her throat, and fell to the floor as if she had received 
a fatal shot. The crowd closed round her and, of 
course, every other idler in the corridor immediately 
joined them. I was not so rude. I not only extricated 
myself from the throng, but left the building hurriedly 
for a short walk on the street. As I descended the 
stairs, I heard Scantling, the lawyer, say: 

“Please stand back. The lady has fainted. Let us 
get her into the clerk’s room.” 

I was disturbed by this incident, I hardly knew why. 
I wondered what had made her faint. It seemed to 
me that when she raised her eyes she had looked at 
me. What did she see? Whom did she see? Had 
— 232 — 


A TROUBLED CONSCIENCE. 


her fainting anything to do with anybody or anything 
she saw? Ought I, under the circumstances, to go 
back there? The voice of prudence seemed to whisper 
to me: 

“Keep away. Pity that a game so well played, up 
to this time, should be spoiled by an act of imprudence! 
No doubt, the suspense will be great, but it cannot last 
forever. Do not return!” 

For a little while I heeded the voice of prudence, 
walking about the streets for the greater part of an 
hour. At the end of that time I felt that I could en- 
dure the suspense no longer. I went back and entered 
the court room, obtaining a very good seat in an ob- 
scure corner whence I could see and hear very well, 
without being at all conspicuous. 

Major Wickham, as the plaintiff, was first required to 
produce his evidence. It was in substance the same 
he had given before the coroner. He positively iden- 
tified the clothing and other articles; and he emphat- 
ically declared the body he had seen at the morgue 
was that of his nephew, Gerald Wentworth Wickham. 
He was not shaken by the rigid cross examination of 
our lawyer — for it appeared that Gilbert had en- 
gaged one — except as to his temper. He certainly 
had an abundance of temper, and there were moments 
when I thought it would have given him extreme 
pleasure to assault our attorney. However, he re- 
— 233 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


strained himself and did nothing to prejudice his case. 
The other witnesses for the plaintiff, the male wit- 
nesses, were all able to describe the missing Mr. Wick- 
ham, with more or less minuteness; and the descrip- 
tion given by each of them corresponded very well 
with the appearance of the body found in the box. 
Yet, they had not seen the body and were, in that par- 
ticular, at a disadvantage as compared with ours. Their 
best witness was the colored woman. She had been 
the nurse of young Wickham. She swore she recog- 
nized the clothing as the property of her young mas- 
ter. Altogether, as it seemed to me, they did not make 
a stronger case in this court than they had made be- 
fore the coroner. At the conclusion of the negro 
woman ^s testimony, Mr. Scantling said: 

“This is our case, your honor, — except as to the tes- 
timony of one witness, who is now too ill to appear. 
If we can have an adjournment until one o’clock this 
afternoon, we can, we think, have that witness present. 
Or, if the defendant will now proceed with his evi- 
dence, we will have the witness here by the time he is 
through.” 

At first, our lawyer seemed disposed to object to this 
irregular, unusual and vexatious method of doing busi- 
ness; but after a short whispered colloquy with Gil- 
bert, he indicated his willingness to adjourn, in com- 
pliance with Mr. Scantling’s proposal. Here the 
— 234 — 


A TROUBLED CONSCIENCE. 


Judge interposed. He said the recess proposed would 
be so much lost time, as no case now on the docket 
could be tried in the interval. Other litigants in that 
court had some rights which must be respected. He 
must therefore insist that the defendant go on with the 
examination of witnesses — if it could not be shown 
that the proceeding involved some injury to either 
party. 

Our witnesses were sworn, and Gilbert took the 
stand. He was followed by Beulah, who was suc- 
ceeded by the other witnesses from Janeville, one after 
another. In his cr®ss-examination of Gilbert and 
Beulah, the plaintiff’s lawyer brought out the fact that 
my life had been heavily insured, and the fact that 
they were my heirs. I had a presentiment of coming 
trouble during a series of questions propounded to the 
first of the other witnesses. 

"‘Did you see the dead body in question?” 

‘^Yes.” 

^‘Where?” 

“At the morgue, in St. Brandan, and afterwards 
when it was brought to Janeville.” 

“Were you in the church in Janeville, on the day of 
the funeral?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“State if anything unusual occurred there, in the 
church, that day?” 

— 235 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


(Question objected to by defendant. Objection sus- 
tained.) 

*'Did you go up to view the body, after the funeral 
sermon?” 

‘‘Yes, sir.” 

“You fully recognized the body as that of George 
Ward?” 

“I did.” 

“Did any other person present, to your knowledge, 
fail to recognize the body?” 

(Objected to, on the ground that the witness was 
not competent to speak of another person’s state of 
mind, with respect to that, or any other matter. Ob- 
jection sustained.) 

“Did you see any one faint in the church that day?” 

(Objected to on the ground that the witness, not be- 
ing a medical expert, was not competent to say 
whether or not a person had fainted. Objection sus- 
tained. The Judge, however, expressed the hope that 
the gentlemen would not become too technical, since 
this was not a jury case, the court felt perfectly com- 
petent to sift the chaff from the wheat — if they would 
let him.) 

As m.atters now stood we had the better case, be- 
yond question. The legal presumption in our favor 
had been strengthened by the testimony of our wit- 


— 236 — 


A TROUBLED CONSCIENCE. 


nesses; and it had not been weakened, as well as I 
could judge, by any evidence on their part. 

“Our friend, the defendant, seems to be having 
things his own way,” said a voice close to my ear. 

I turned my head and saw that a gentleman who 
sat near me, on the left, had spoken. He was a tall 
man, dressed in a gray business suit. He had iron- 
gray hair cropped close to his head, and he wore no 
beard. 

“Yes,” I replied, “he seems to be doing very well. 
What do you — ” 

“Order in the court!” shouted a man inside the bar. 

As it was now near noon, the court took a recess 
until one o’clock. The gentleman in the gray suit had 
some sandwiches in a paper and offered me one. He 
proved to be a very pleasant, companionable man. I 
was glad of his company, for he helped me to while 
away, what might otherwise have been a very tedious 
hour, pending the re-opening of the court. 


— 237 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A STRANGE DECLARATION. 

When the plaintiff and his witnesses entered the 
court, at the close of the noon recess, I saw the veiled 
lady among them. She leaned upon the arm of a tall, 
elderly person whose face I could not see. She sat 
down near one of the tables, between her escort and 
Mr. Scantling. 

In response to a question by the court, Mr. Bills 
said, the defendant would offer no more evidence, un- 
less in rebuttal. 

“Very well,’^ said the Judge. “If your other witness 
is present, Mr. Scantling, you will proceed with your 
case.” 

“Miss Judith Wymore will now be sworn,” said the 
lawyer. 

I was not quite unprepared for this, as the intelli- 
gent reader may well suppose. I had feared some- 
thing of the kind when I read of the scene in the 
church at Janeville. But I had not suspected that the 
veiled woman leaning on the arm of Mrs. Colonel 
Wickham, might be Judith — until she fainted. Then 
indeed I had some misgivings. Nevertheless, the an- 
nouncement of her name, conveying the positive as- 
— 238 — 


A STRANGE DECLARATION. 


surance that she was actually there, was enough to 
upset me, Now also, for the first time, came the 
thought that her recognition of me — if she had recog- 
nized me — meant danger. In fact, I half rose to my 
feet with a vague idea of making a bolt for the street. 

‘‘Bad ventilation,” said a voice in my ear. “Take a 
pull at this. Room over-crowded. Enough to make a 
dog sick.” 

It was my neighbor in the gray suit. Though never, 
at any time, addicted to the use of strong drink, I suc- 
cumbed to the temptation in this instance, I am sorry 
to say, and swallowed a mouthful of liquor from the 
flask he offered me. 

By this time Judith had been sworn and had taken 
her place in the witness box. She had removed her 
veil and I could see her features plainly as she faced 
the Judge. She was as pale as marble, but her look 
was composed. 

After the usual preliminary questions as to name 
and residence, Mr. Scantling asked: 

“Did you know George William Ward, whose body, 
the defendant declared, was brought to Janeville for 
burial?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Did you know him intimately?” 

Form of question objected to. 


— 239 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


“State what degree of intimacy existed between you 
and George W. Ward.” 

“He was a member of our church — the church 
where my father preaches, and — he came to our house 
frequently.” 

“On the occasions when he visited your home, were 
you, as a rule, in his company?” 

“I was.” 

There was some little wrangling about the form of 
this question, and the court cautioned Mr. Scantling 
to be careful, and also advised Mr. Bills not to be too 
technical. 

“Very well,” said Mr. Scantling. “Will the witness 
please tell the court the reason, if she knows, of Mr. 
Ward's frequent visits to her father's house?” 

“Must I answer that?” 

“You should answer it,” said the Judge, kindly. 

I thought her lips trembled for a moment, but there 
was no tremor in her voice when she replied: 

“We were to be married.” 

I looked at Beulah, but she wore her veil down. 
Gilbert was wiping his eyes in a very simple, unosten- 
tatious way. I thought there were tears in the eyes 
of our lawyer. As for me, the simple pathetic words 
pierced my heart like a dagger. The lawyer resumed: 

“Please tell the court wether you saw the body 


— 240 — 


A STRANGE DECLARATION. 


which was brought to Janeville and buried, as that of 
George Ward.” 

“I did.” 

‘‘State whose body it was — if you know.” 

“I do not know. I never saw the man before. It 
was not George Ward.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Quite sure.” 

“Will you please tell the court how you know the 
body was not that of your betrothed?” 

She hesitated and looked troubled. After a short 
delay she answered: 

“It was not George Ward. The resemblance was 
very strong — strong enough to deceive his brother and 
his sister, but I — O my God! How could I be de- 
ceived?” 

“Therefore, you swear positively that it was not the 
body of Mr. Ward which you saw in the church at 
Janeville.” 

“Positively.” 

Mr. Conkling seemed to be in doubt at this point. 
The hesitation of the lady troubled him, I suppose. 
Finally, he decided not to question her further. I 
would have given something to be able to whisper a 
word in the ear of Mr. Bills at that moment. It 
seemed to me that Gilbert ought to have advised him 


— 241 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


to let her go. But Gilbert, I am bound to admit, was 
wiser than any of us. 

'‘Miss Wymore,’* said Mr. Bills, “you know, do you 
not, that Mr. Henry Ward, brother to the missing 
George Ward, and his sister Beulah, and a majority 
of the people of Janeville, recognized the body you 
saw in the church as the corpse of George Ward?’* 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And you think they are all mistaken — all his friends 
and neighbors, and his brother and sister, who had 
known him from childhood — all mistaken?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“But you, who had known him for a few months 
only — you are not mistaken?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Was there any mark upon the features of George 
Ward — any peculiarity, the absence of which might 
be noted on the person of that dead man as he lay 
in his coffin, discoverable by you, and not by others?” 

“I think not.” 

“Have you then any peculiar knowledge, not in the 
possession of others, which enables you to swear so 
positively here that it was not George Ward?” 

She was silent for some time. At last she said, slow- 
ly and with manifest reluctance: 

“I have.” 

“Then please tell the court what it is.” 

— 242 — 


A STRANGE DECLARATION. 


“Is that necessary? Surely when I swear positively, 
that is enough/’ 

“Better tell it,” said the court. 

“But indeed — indeed, I cannot,” she cried. 

“Young lady,” said the Judge, “I think there is no 
one in this room who does not appreciate the very 
painful position in which you are placed. Yet you 
should remember the situation is not painful to you 
alone. The plaintiff, a venerable member of an old 
and highly-respected family, is here contending for 
possession of the body of a relative. Try to think 
what a public trial, involving such an issue, must be 
to him. If his plea is just decency and humanity re- 
quire that it should be granted. Then here are a 
brother and sister, perfectly convinced, I am sure, that 
they are fighting to retain possession , of their 
brother’s remains. Think of the horrible cruel- 
ty, if they are right in their contention, of 
causing his grave to be opened that a stranger may 
take away his bones. Can you not perceive that, in 
this case, who loses, wins? If it is in your power to 
demonstrate the falsity of either claim, you become the 
benefactor of that claimant, for you give a hope, at 
least, that the loved one is not dead. Distressing as 
your position is, you must see that the court is com- 
pelled to insist that you give the information asked.” 
She was not convinced by this wise and temperate 
^ 243 - 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


speech. At last the Judge warned her that he had 
power to commit her for contempt. 

'‘If you send me to jail, I shall not have to answer? 
Have I that alternative? No, father, — it is useless. I 
will gladly go to prison. Judge, if I may choose either 
to go there or obey your command.’^ 

I now observed that the tall man who had entered 
the room with her, was her father. In his excitement 
he had got upon his feet. Here and there all over 
the room people were standing, while others leaned 
eagerly forward. The lawyers were clearly astonished. 
Even Gilbert looked surprised and mildly sympathetic. 
At last the Judge said: 

“Miss Wymore, I heard you speak of your father’s 
church. Are you a member of it?” 

“Yes.” 

“You are a Christian?” 

“I hope so. I try to be.” 

“Do you remember the oath you took when you 
came upon the stand, pledging yourself to tell the 
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” 

“I understood that I was sworn to tell the truth, but 
it sounded to me like one long word, as the gentleman 
repeated it.” 

The gentleman — the clerk — blushed. The Judge 
smiled and then read the oath to her once more clearly 
and distinctly. Then he said: 

— 244 — 


A STRANGE DECLARATION. 


“Have you, in fact, told the whole truth, the entire, 
perfect truth, without reservation or evasion?” 

Her head drooped slightly, and a wave of color 
swept over her face, and then passed away, leaving her 
paler, if possible, than before. The Judge went on- 
inexorably : 

“Can you, a Christian woman, reconcile it with your 
conscience to refuse to perform what you have sworn 
to do? There is an ugly word the law gives to that 
sort of thing. Do you knov/ what it is?” 

I did not understand the answer, but the Judge re- 
peated it: 

“Yes — perjury.” 

He waited a moment. Then he said: 

“You will answer the question?” 

“God help me! I must.” 

“Repeat your question, Mr. Bills,” said the Judge. 

“I ask you to tell the court what peculiar knowledge 
you have which enables you to say, so positively, that 
the body exhibited in the church at Janeville was not 
that of George W. Ward.” 

“George William Ward is not dead!” 

Instantly the court room began to spin around a 
circle of which I was the center. 

“Take another small sip,” whispered my friend in 
gray. “You ought to see a doctor.” 

“I perceived, when the floor and ceiling ceased their 
— 245 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


gyration, that the last statement of the witness had 
created a general sensation. Both lawyers, all the wit- 
nesses, and two-thirds of the spectators were standing. 
Reporters’ pencils were going at a rapid rate. Even 
the cool and dignified judge looked astonished. I 
looked at Gilbert and was comforted to observe that 
this distinguished actor did not forget the stage busi- 
ness proper to the situation. He had stretched out 
his right hand and clasped, with his strong, white fin- 
gers, the two hands of his sister as they lay folded 
in her lap. She appeared to be crying, but I could not 
see her face. Nothing could be more natural and un- 
affected than the bearing of the brother and sister at 
this trying moment. It was impossible not to admire 
the courage, audacity and genius of this unscrupulous 
man, as exhibited in this trying situation. I guessed 
that he had seen this storm brewing all day and was 
not unprepared when it came. He had understood the 
scene in the corridor that morning. 

After several efforts the court officials managed to 
restore order among the large number of spectators. 
Mr. Bills looked puzzled. He had certainly not ex- 
pected that reply. 

‘‘Your honor,” he said, addressing the court, “I 
feel that this answer of the witness is a surprise to all 
concerned, — to the plaintiff no less than to us. There- 
fore, with the consent of Mr. Scantling, I will ask the 


246 — 


A STRANGE DECLARATION. 


court to propound such further questions as he may 
wish to have answered/’ 

The Judge said: 

'‘Miss Wymore, you declare that George Ward is 
not dead. Did you know that when you went to look 
at the body in the church?” 

"No, sir.” 

This answer again startled the court and the law- 
yers, as I could easily see. The court resumed: 

"I will ask you to state how you know he is not 
dead.” 

"Because I have seen him since — alive.” 

"Please explain.” 

"I met George Ward this morning, face to face, — 
here in this building.” 

"Is it possible? Are you sure of this?” 

"Perfectly sure. As sure as that I now see you.” 

"Did you speak to him?” 

"No, sir.” 

"May I ask why?” 

"I— I fainted.” 

"Was he disguised in any way?” 

"Yes.” 

"Can you describe his appearance, as you saw him 
to-day?” 

"I will not Positively. Not if you send me to 
jail for life/’ 

— 247 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


A little color came into her face when she said this, 
but it passed quickly away. 

shall not send you to jail,” said the Judge kindly, 
have asked you the question for reasons which 
should be perfectly clear to you. If you can so de- 
scribe the man you saw that he may be found, it will 
be the best way to settle this unhappy matter, because 
it will then he settled right — to the entire satisfaction 
of all concerned.” 

“I have done what I believe to be my duty, so far. 
I will say no more.” 

Without waiting for the permission of the court she 
returned to her seat by her father’s side, lowering her 
veil as she went. 

“What next, gentlemen?” said the Judge. 

I saw Gilbert whisper to Mr. Bills, after which that 
gentleman arose and said: 

“Owing to the very extraordinary turn this case has 
taken, I have to ask your honor to grant me time for 
a short consultation with my client.” 

Mr. Scantling interposed some objection, but the 
court asked: 

“How much time do you want, Mr. Bills?” 

“Thirty minutes will do.” 

“Very well, call the next case, Mr. Clerk.” 

A little before the expiration of the thirty minutes 
Gilbert and the lawyer re-entered the room. Mr. Bills 
— 248 — 


A STRANGE DECLARATION. 

said, as soon as he could gain the attention of the 
Judge: 

‘‘May it please the court, my client, Mr. Ward, feels 
that he is placed in a very unpleasant position by the 
testimony of the last witness. He wishes me to say 
that he feels nothing but the most profound respect 
and sympathy for the young lady who, as he now for 
the first time learns, was betrothed to his brother. If 
the statement last made by the witness is true, it opens 
the way for ugly inferences respecting Mr. Gilbert 
and his sister. The only thing for an honorable 
man to do, as matters now stand, is to go to the bot- 
tom of this business, if it may be done. Under the 
circumstances, we undertake to impeach the evidence 
of Miss Wymore.^’ 

It was our turn now to produce a sensation, 
and we did it. I thought, for a moment, that Mr. 
Wymore, man of God as he was, would strike Mr. 
Bills. The witnesses from Janeville looked at one an- 
other, at the court, at the lawyer, in open-mouthed 
astonishment. Even Mr. Scantling, accustomed as he 
must have been to strange happenings in courts, was 
like a man whose breath had been knocked out of him, 
but he soon recovered and rose to his feet laughing. 

“Your honor,’" he said, “if my learned brother 
wishes to impeach Miss Wymore — to assail her repu- 
tation for veracity in the place where she lives, let 
— 249 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


him do so by all means. I ask nothing better than 
the testimony, on that point, of his own witnesses from 
Janeville.” 

“The gentleman has not understood me,” said Mr. 
Bills. “May it please the court, it is not any question 
of morality we raise, but a question of sanity. It is 
not for me to define the extent of her malady. It may 
well be that, in some things, she is sane enough. But 
in this matter she is undoubtedly suffering under a 
strange mental delusion — hallucination is perhaps the 
right name for it. It will not be our purpose to show 
that the ordeal through which this delicate, sensitive 
lady has passed might dethrone the reason of nine 
women in ten, but to show that it has, in fact, de- 
throned hers. If non-medical witnesses might serve, 
I should be content with the testimony of this vener- 
able minister of the gospel, her own father. But we 
have here a medical gentleman from her own town — 
called here to testify on another matter, and we can 
procure the testimony of the St. Brandan physician 
who attended her this morning, so there need be no 
delay. However, I am willing to allow a reasonable 
time, if the plaintiffs are not ready — asking the court 
to reserve its decision on the main point until then.” 

“Have you any precedent for impeaching a witness 
on this ground?” asked Mr. Scantling. 

“I have not sought for any,” said Mr. Bills. “No 
— 250 — 


A STRANGE DECLARATION. 


court will receive the testimony of an insane person. 
The authorities are clear on that point. The fact of 
insanity, I should say, may be proved like any other 
fact.” 

“Mr. Scantling,” said the Judge, “will you take up 
this matter now? I will do what I can to accommo- 
date the parties, but counsel must remember that de- 
lay would involve much expense to all concerned.” 

“But I protest,” said the lawyer for the plaintiff. 
“The V\^hole proceeding is not only irregular, but it is 
inhuman. After what this lady has suffered, it will 
be cruel in the extreme to compel her to sit here and 
be tried as a lunatic.” 

“The court,” replied Mr. Bills, “has already called 
attention to the fact that cruelty is inherent in this case, 
from first to last. Any possible outcome of it, now, 
must be brutal; but I respectfully submit to your honor 
that to leave matters in their present shape would be 
the most cruel thing of all. However, since my friend 
shrinks from cruelty, there is one very good way out 
of it. Let him agree that this evidence shall be strick- 
en from the records of the court — that it be, in fact, 
ignored by the court. I make the offer with reluc- 
tance, feeling that I am hardly just to my client in 
doing so — but I make it out of sincere pity for the 
young woman. The gentleman has only to analyze 


— 251 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


the conduct of this girl from the day of the funeral till 
now, to perceive that she cannot be in her right mind.” 

Here an idea occurred to the Judge. I tremble 
now to think how very brilliant it might have proved, 
had it served its purpose. He asked Judith to return 
to the witness box. When she had done so, he said: 

^‘You have heard what has been said concerning 
your mental condition?” 

‘‘Yes, sir.” 

“Can you not now see how very important it is that 
you should describe the appearance of George Ward 
— as you saw him this morning? If you can cause him 
to be found, it will set at rest forever this cruel doubt 
of your sanity.” 

“I am not interested to prove my sanity. I may be 
crazy — I have suffered enough to make me so. I am 
not quite sure myself, as to that — ^at times. I will say 
no more. Send me to the jail — or to an asylum, if you 
wish.” 

She walked back to her place with the air of one 
utterly weary, sat down and leaned her head against 
her father’s shoulder. As for me, I gave a sigh of 
relief. Nine hundred and ninety-nine women in her 
place would have set themselves right, under the cir- 
cumstances. It seemed to me that Gilbert had staked 
our whole case on the assumption that she would be 
the thousandth woman, who would not yield under 
— 252 — 


A STRANGE DECLARATION. 

any circumstances. It was a dreadful risk, but — he 
was right. 

At this point, Major Wickham rose, after a whis- 
pered conversation with his attorney, and asked if the 
court would let him say a word. It was irregular, he 
knew, but he would not abuse the privilege in any way. 
After some hesitation, the Judge said he might speak, 
if he would be brief. 

'‘In justice to my attorney,” he said, “I must say 
that I am acting contrary to my own interests in this 
case — not contrary to what both he and I believe to 
be right and just. I am as sure at this moment as I 
ever was, that the body these people have buried is 
the body of my nephew. I came here to-day in the 
hope, that his remains might be given to me, so that I 
could lay them by his father’s side in our family bury- 
ing-place. Even now, sir, under any other circum- 
stances, I would litigate this matter through all the 
courts of this country; but — this sweet young lady — 
she will pardon the expression, I hope — must not be 
subjected to any such infamous ordeal. She is no 
more insane than this court is, at this moment. But 
she came here at my request, like the lady she is, to 
testify in this case. Neither she nor her father shall 
have cause to regret that kindness, as far as I can con- 
trol the matter. My nephew was — er — ^well, 4ie was 
my nephew, but with all due respect to his memory, 
— 253 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


he was not worth as much as all that; and I’ll be — I 
beg the court’s pardon. This must stop where it is. 
Strike her testimony from the record, by agreement, if 
that is the only way to stop this proposed impeach- 
ment. She is not crazy. I wish to God, many more 
people I could name were half as sane.” 

After some discussion it was agreed that her evi- 
dence should be stricken from the record. In his sum- 
ming up the Judge said: 

“Up to the introduction of Miss Wymore’s testi- 
mony, the plaintiff had by no means produced evi- 
dence to convince me the defendant was wrongfully 
in possession. Taking into account the extraordi- 
nary nature of her testimony, both as to the manner 
and the matter of it, I must have required some strong 
corroboration of it, from some source, even if the ques- 
tion of her mental condition had never been raised. 
Her positive refusal to testify as to certain important 
facts, especially as to the di guise worn by the alleged 
George Ward, must, in any case, have weakened the 
force of her testimony. The court must find for the 
defendant.” 


— Q54 — 


THE LOVE OF WOMAN. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE LOVE OF WOMAN. 

After the decision was rendered, I walked about the 
streets for several hours. I could not feel greatly elated 
over our victory. As the case now stood, it offered 
plenty of ground for litigation, if the insurance com- 
panies should decide to fight us in the courts. They 
were certainly in a position to demand some reduction 
of our claims, by way of compromise. Even if we 
should gain the whole amount, I must be a loser, in 
the matter of dollars and cents, to say nothing of my 
greater loss. My share, if paid down to the last penny, 
would hardly amount to the cash balance my darling 
now had at her banker’s. What a situation was mine ! 
A dead man in theory, Beulah’s husband in fact! And 
I might have been rich, honored, with the sweetest 
woman in the world for my wife. Dear girl, how well 
she loved me! How nobly she had passed through 
that day’s trials for my sake! How grand she was in 
concealing my identity. And now I must skulk 
through the world, a man in hiding, the rest of my 
days! I might indeed divorce Beulah, and I might 
even induce Judith to marry me, but I could never 


— 255 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


look the world in the face, as an honest man with 
nothing to hide and nothing to fear. 

It was nearly dark when I returned to my room. I 
had been there only a few minutes when some one 
knocked at my door. The visitor proved to be that 
good Samaritan who had twice that day offered me 
his whiskey bottle in the court room. He allowed me 
no time to express my surprise at his visit; he entered 
the room, closed the door, locked it, and put the key 
in his trouser’s pocket. 

"‘Mr. George William Ward, ‘‘he said, “I have come 
to see you. As soon as you can recover your breath, 
we must have a little conversation.” 

I sat down upon my bed, too dazed for the moment, 
to realize the awful significance of the man’s words. 
The stranger took the one chair in the room and sat 
down in it, with his back to the closed door. 

“Will I have the goodness to say what it is that 
procures for you the honor of this visit? You look 
the question though you do not ask it. My name is 
McCurdy, Jason McCurdy, at your service. I conduct 
a private inquiry bureau — am a private detective, if I 
may use that somewhat overworked word. I am em- 
ployed by Miss Judith Wymore to ascertain, if pos- 
sible, whether one George W. Ward, late of Janeville, 
Mo., is alive or dead. He is alive, I rejoice to say. 
Very much alive, and very well, too — may I hope?” 

— 256 — 


THE LOVE OF WOMAN. 


This was awful. I felt as if the earth were about to 
open and swallow me — ^yet, frightened as I was, I 
could not succumb without a struggle. 

“Great Heavens!” I exclaimed, as if talking to my- 
self. “What am I to do? Shut up here alone with a 
lun — Pray, my good fellow, please go down now. 
You have come to the wrong house. The man you 
are looking for lives next door — at number 1427.” 

He stared at me for a moment, as if he might really 
be the mental imbecile my words implied. Then he 
threw his head back and laughed till the tears rolled 
down his cheeks. 

“Holy smoke!” he exclaimed. “What a great day 
for the insanity dodge! My word, the Ward family 
are well read up on lunacy! Well now to — Excuse 
me, your wig is on a little wrong — twisted to one side.” 

My blood boils, even now, when I think of the ease 
with which he caught me by this cheap trick. The 
base, cunning scoundrel! I clapped my hand to my 
head before I thought, and as he coarsely expressed 
it — “the jig was up.” 

I suppose my face must have betrayed the murder- 
ous impulse of my heart at that moment, for he raised 
his hand, and showed me the steel barrel of a small 
derringer pistol. It may have been in his hand when 
he came in, or it may have been concealed in his sleeve. 
He spoke sternly: 

— 257 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


“No foolishness. I must ask you to put up your 
hands, please. Put them up against the wall — they 
will not soil the paper, strange to say. There. ' 

It was of no earthly use to resist. Moreover, my 
common sense came to my aid and told me that a row 
which might attract the attention of other inmates of 
the house was not to be desired. He first searched my 
person to make sure I had no weapons; then, before I 
could even guess his intention, he snatched my false 
hair from my head. Ah the shame — the cruel humili- 
ation ! 

“You contemptible dog!' I said. “If I had you — ” 

“Yes,” he interrupted me, with insolent coolness, 
do not doubt it — not the least bit in the world. But 
you haven’t, you know.” 

“Are you aware that you have no legal right to — ” 

“Bless you, yes. Perfectly aware. Illegal from 
start to finish. Plain case of assaulting a gentleman in 
his own house. Shall we have a policeman up? You 
see I have not even a warrant for your arrest. Which 
is a circumstance for rejoicing or regret — ^just as you 
look at it.” 

This wicked fellow had me in his power, as he well 
knew. Certainly ther« was nothing to be gained, on 
my part, by flying into a rage and so losing the little 
wit God had given me. I sat down on my bed, folded 


— 258 — 


THE LOVE OF WOMAN. 


my arms across my breast and waited to hear what he 
had to say. 

“Shall we talk?” he asked. 

“You may talk,” I said. 

“All right. Sorry if I have been rough with you, 
but it may please you to know that I regard you as one 
of the most daring and unscrupulous of all the — ras- 
cals I have met in a long and eventful career of rascal- 
hunting. I confess I went into this case without much 
hope of success. It may interest you to know that I 
was, for a while, disposed to believe my employer’s 
troubles had unsettled her reason. But she of¥ered 
me a good fee, with a good contingent fee in case I 
suceeded. Not necessary for me to explain how she 
first heard of me. It seems that, just about the time 
she convinced herself that the celebrated box victim 
was not George Ward, she inherited some money, 
and determined to employ a little of it in a search 
for that gentleman. By the way, whose body is it? 
Wickham’s? Well, never mind. When she discovered 
that the dead man was not you, she naturally, though 
perhaps illogically, concluded you could not be dead. 
She had read of people who had suddenly become 
insane, forgetting their own names and everything 
connected with their past lives, wandering about for 
years in that condition. That, in her opinion, was 


— 259 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


what had happened to you. Somebody advised her to 
consult me; and so I got my present job. 

“The girl never suspected you of any wrong-doing; 
but as for me, when I looked into the facts, I felt toler- 
ably sure she was mistaken one way or the other. 
Either you were dead or, if alive, you were something 
worse than a forlorn lunatic running at large in a cold, 
unfriendly world. I did not communicate my sus- 
picions to her, because, on the face of things, the 
whole business seemed to be so fair and above board, 
as far as your brother and sister were concerned, that 
I had not a single fact to go upon. Your brother 
Charles had seemingly made all reasonable efforts to 
find his missing brother. He had made long and ex- 
pensive journeys to examine corpses which were sup- 
posed to resemble you. After all, the death theory 
seemed the more reasonable alternative. I began to 
be discouraged, and was almost ready to believe that 
the only lunatic in the case was the lady who had 
employed me. 

“Yet, assuming that you were alive, you might be 
in concealment for the purpose of defrauding the in- 
surance companies. In that case there would be one 
weak spot in your scheme. You would find it neces- 
sary, sometime, .to meet your confederates in the in- 
terests of your scheme. Therefore, the person to be 
watched must be your brother. I watched him at 
— 260 — 


THE LOVE OF WOMAN. 


Janeville, but nothing came of it. I followed him to 
St. Brandan, and have kept him in sight ever since, 
but nothing came of it. I was feeling blue about it. 

“I went to the court house this morning, and 
watched the doors and corridors. Your brother en- 
tered, but nobody approached him, nor did he look as 
if he had any earthly interest in any person present. 
Then the lady fainted, and an odd thing happened. 
While all the other idlers there crowded around her^ 
as idlers always will do in such cases, one man, in 
the front rank, seemed anxious to get away — elbowed 
the others aside, and hurried out. Him I followed. 
He walked about the streets, and acted as if he were 
much troubled about something. At last he returned 
to the court house — as I hoped and believed he would. 
I followed him in and sat down by him where I could 
study his features and watch every expression of his 
face. Man, you gave yourself away a half-dozen times. 
What angel (or devil) guided your steps to that place 
to-day? Well, that is my story. Here I am and here 
you are — and your name is George William Ward, 
and I have earned my money, contingent fee and all.” 

I sat silent for awhile. Evidently I was in this man’s 
power, and, unless I could make some terms with him, 
the outlook was very gloomy indeed. 

“Well,” I said at last, “as you say, here you are. 


- 261 -^ 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


and here I am. Now that we are here, now that you 
have earned your money, what next?’’ 

'‘Next? I have to see my employer, who does not 
know of my success. It is for her to say what next.” 

“Do you object to telling me how much money, 
contingent fee and all, you are to get? It is not idle 
curiosity which prompts me to ask.” 

“No — no idle curiosity, Fm sure. You merely wish 
to inquire if I can be bought off. The sooner you dis- 
miss that idea from your mind the less time you will 
lose. I am not posing as a saint, but I have my stand- 
ard of professional honor — if I may call my business 
a profession — and I live up to it. Make your appeal 
to the lady; it is her affair, not mine.” 

“Good heavens! How can I look this woman in 
the face?” 

“I do not know, I am sure. Maybe she will not 
care to be looked in the face by you. But now as to 
present arrangements. Since I have you, I must con- 
trive to keep you, somehow.” 

“You need not fear,” I said. “You have my word 
of honor I will not try to escape.” 

“I do not want to say anything unpleasant, young 
man, but when a gentleman has acted as you have, I 
— ^well, I should say that honor is a good topic to 
avoid, under the circumstances.” 

“No doubt, you are right,” I retorted. “A detected 
— 262 — 


THE LOVE OF WOMAN. 


swindler and a hired spy are not exactly the kind of 
people to find comfort in a subject like that. Have it 
your own way. Fix it to suit yourself.” 

“Thank you. We could bring a cot up here and 
have one of my men to sleep in the room with you; 
but that might lead to embarrassing questions on the 
part of your landlady. It will be better to take you 
out to my place. I can give you a bed and something 
to eat. It is a quiet place — you have no objection to 
privacy, have you?” ^ 

“Have it your own way,” I repeated. 

“Well, make such arrangemients as you need for a 
temporary absence from home. Better tell your land- 
lady you are going to spend the night with a friend — 
unless you think that one more straw will break the 
back of your conscience.” 

I do not know the name of the street where Mr- 
McCurdy lived, nor the street number, nor the quarter 
of the town in which the house was situated. By the 
time we were ready to start it was dark. We went in 
a closed carriage, and my mind was so occupied with 
my troubles, I gave no heed to the direction we took. 
Of the house, externally or internally, I will say noth- 
ing, except that there were bars across the windows 
of the room where I slept — to keep out burglars, Mc- 
Curdy said. The room was very well furnished and I 
had a good bed — and a very good supper. Appar- 
— 263 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


ently the only inmate of the place, besides McCurdy, 
was a red-haired, beetle-browed man, an Irishman, I 
believe, though I never heard the sound of his voice. 
This man brought my meals and answered the bell 
when I needed anything. 

I felt so much better after supper that I was able to 
reason with some degree of calmness on the state of 
my affairs. I began to believe that my case was not 
altogether desperate. I thought of the scenes in court, 
and I remembered how much Judith had endured for 
my sake. She loved me. If ever I had doubted that 
she loved me, there was no room for doubt now. I 
was in her power, as the barred windows in my room 
reminded me more than once, but she would not turn 
me over to the minions of the law. There should be 
worse things for a man than to be at the mercy of a 
woman who loves him. 

As to McCurdy, he was a factor in the problem I 
had to solve, and he could not be ignored. At present 
he seemed to be wholly devoted to the interests of his 
employer; but the time must soon come for him to 
receive his pay and be discharged from her service. 
What would he do then? What would be his attitude 
toward me? It was not easy for me to guess — but 
that was a matter to be considered hereafter. I went 
to bed and, strange to say, slept soundly until break- 
fast time. 


— 264 — 


THE LOVE OF WOMAN, 


When the man brought my breakfast, he brought 
also a morning paper. I read with much interest the 
account of the trial, as well as the able editorial on 
the subject of “Mistaken Identity.’* 

McCurdy came in, about ten o’clock, and thrilled 
me with the announcement that Judith was in the 
house and would see me presently, in the garden; but 
I must remove my disguise. He had the goodness to 
order the red-haired man to bring up hot water and 
shave me. 

When I was ready, the man conducted me down- 
stairs and out into a yard in the rear of the premises. 
In the yard a gravel walk led down to a gate which 
seemed to open upon an alley. There were trees in 
the yard, and the ground was covered with a thick 
sward of grass. There were garden-seats here and 
there under the trees. A veiled woman, dressed in 
black, sat upon one of the seats near the walk. The 
red-haired man passed the woman and went to a 
bench near the alley gate, out of hearing of anything 
we might say, but in plain view. 

I halted within a few feet of her and waited until 
the man was out of ear-shot. I hoped she would speak 
first, for in the presence of that small, veiled figure, I 
felt as if death would be the most blessed boon heaven 
could send me. She lifted her head as I drew near. 


— 265 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


but she waited for me to speak. At last I managed to 
stammer: 

“Judith— Judith— ” 

She rose to her feet, keeping one hand upon the 
back of the seat, as if to steady herself. I advanced 
toward her with both hands outstretched, but she drew 
back, putting up her own hand, palm outward, as if 
to repel me. 

“Please do not come any nearer,” she said. “I can 
see you quite well where you are; and you may know 
that — to see you — I have been at some trouble — and 
some cost. I see you now, and that is the end of my 
wish. I have no desire to touch you.” 

This bitter speech ended in a sob, piteous to hear. 
I waited a moment and then spoke again : 

“Judith, my darling — ” 

“Not that!” she cried. “For God’s sake, not that! 
If any spark of decency or manhood is in you, speak 
no word of endearment to me. This interview will end 
the moment you address me again in that manner, I 
warn you. And please remember you are to take no 
liberties with my name. Only my intimate friends 
call me Judith.” 

“God bless you!” I said. “That is no term of en- 
dearment, but a prayer — however sinful the lips that 
utter it. Heaven forbid that I should fail to honor 
your lightest wish. I am here only to tell you how 
-266 — 


THE LOVE OF WOMAN. 


sorry I am; to tell you how utterly humiliated and 
ashamed I am; to ask your forgiveness, and die.” 

The reader need not be incredulous as to this 
speech, I uttered it as it is here written. I had pre- 
pared it carefully beforehand, and hence it remains 
fixed in my memory. Now that it lies written out be- 
fore me, I think, as I thought then, it was a right 
noble speech, deserving at least a decent reception 
by the person to whom it was addressed. My knowl- 
edge of the female heart had suggested to me that 
the only thing to do was to throw myself unreservedly 
on her mercy. I have observed that a man is never 
so interesting in the eyes of a high-souled, pure- 
minded woman, as when he appears before her in the 
character of a penitent sinner. Which was the char- 
acter, as the reader may remember, in which I first 
became an object of interest to Judith. But instead of 
replying to this touching speech, she sat down upon 
the end of the seat farthest from me; and when I at- 
tempted to sit down upon the same bench, she rose 
again. This action stung me to the quick. I stood up 
— even removed myself some distance, motioning her 
to resume her place. Yet I could not help saying with 
some bitterness: 

“Time was when you were not afraid to sit by my 
side.” 

“That is a generous speech,” she said, “such a 
— 267 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


speech as one might expect from a penitent sinner 
who only waits to be forgiven that he may die, A 
delicate allusion to the past which — which I did not 
need. If I had forgotten that — that other time, do 
you think I should be here to-day?” 

“You are here,” I said, “because you are a noble 
woman. You are here out of pity for the most abject 
and forlorn creature that crawls the earth — a wretch 
who would be honored above his deserts if he were 
allowed to kiss the hem of your dress — who will not 
forget, in time or eternity, your noble conduct yes- 
terday.” 

“Have you always been a hypocrite and scoundrel?” 
she cried. “Have you been a criminal all the time — 
ever since I first knew you? When you — ^when you 
used to visit me, when you said you — loved me — ^were 
you a liar and hypocrite then, with criminal designs 
on other people’s money? Has there been no moment 
of our acquaintance when my belief in you was well 
founded? When you professed to be converted, and 
when you joined the church — ^were you a thief then, 
in intent, as well as a blasphemer? And you will not 
forget, in time or in eternity, my conduct of yester- 
day ! Oh, how long will it be before I forget that you 
were there; that you sat, an approving spectator, 
through the — through the whole performance!” 

“On your part,” I said gently, “are you sure you 
— 268 — 


THE LOVE OF WOMAN. 


are quite generous and fair? You set a spy to hunt 
me down. To-day you have caused me to be dragged 
to this place — to stand before you as a detected thief. 
I am absolutely at your mercy. All you have to do 
is to call the nearest policeman and I am undone for- 
ever. I may not resent anything you say — could not 
if I would, would not if I could. You have the right 
to abuse me, because you have purchased it for good 
and lawful money; but, having the right, is it quite 
generous, quite merciful in you to exercise it to the 
fullest possible limit — ^to call me thief, hypocrite, liar, 
and other bad names?” 

It seemed to me that here was the place where I 
should show some spirit. In dealing with women, I 
have observed that nothing so disconcerts them as an 
aggressive spirit shown at the time they least expect it. 
I have known that policy to disconcert even men. 

She did, in fact, keep silent for awhile, so that I 
began to flatter myself I had put her in the position 
of defendant instead of accuser. At last she said, in a 
low voice, as if speaking to herself: 

“Merciful? He is at my mercy. Hence he must 
submit to be called a thief, for I might call a police- 
man. And he reproaches me with cruelty. I thought 
to sting him into something — some exhibition of man- 
hood; and I have stung him into one more pitiful, un- 
blushing exhibition of hypocrisy. Father in Heaven, 
— 269 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


was there no such being as the man I loved, the hero 
of my dreams? Had he never an existence on earth?” 

“Very well,” I said. “So be it. I will prove to you, 
young woman, I am not the dastard you take me to 
be. Heaven be my witness, I will go this moment 
and surrender to the police. Yes, I admit it, life was 
sweet to me, and liberty was sweet; but rather than 
accept life and liberty at your hands, under present 
circumstances, I would cut my own throat. Here, 
you!” I cried, addressing the man by the gate. “Can 
you show me the way to the nearest police station?” 

The man did not move, although I advanced half 
way to the place where he was sitting. I stood and 
waited for at least a minute, and then turned to note 
the effect of my words on Judith. To my surprise I 
found her by my side, her face unveiled, her eyes full 
of tears. “I have brought you to time, my lady,” I 
said to myself. She placed both her small gloved 
hands upon my arm. 

“Will you?” she said. “Have you the courage to do 
that? Sweetheart, I loved you because I thought you 
good, and strong, and brave, and true. I do not pre- 
tend to know all there may be in this horrible busi- 
ness. I know you have been drawn, in some way, 
into an attempt to wrong some people. I know the 
attempt is in a fair way to succeed if something is not 
done to prevent it. Have you indeed the courage to 
— 270 — 


THE LOVE OF WOMAN. 


prevent this crime even if it involves a great act of 
self-sacrifice on your part? Will you indeed do this 
because it is right? Dear, do you remember when and 
where we spoke together last? Have you forgotten 
the moonlight, and the falling leaves, and the ripple 
of the waters below the bridge? I have not. I have 
not forgotten any, even the smallest detail of that 
scene. I have not forgotten a word you said. You 
hinted at a wrong done under great temptation — I un- 
derstand now what you meant. Do you remember 
that you asked me — stay, I will repeat what you said: 
‘If you loved a man, situated as my friend was, and 
that man, moved by a sense of duty toward God and 
society, denounced the scoundrel who was trying to 
lead him deeper into crime, meekly, uncomplainingly, 
accepting all consequences to himself, even though his 
duty should lead him to the penitentiary or the gal- 
lows, could you love him still?’ You asked me that. 
Do you remember what I said?” 

“You said,” I replied, “that you could go with him 
to the foot of the gallows if his duty led him there.” 

“Well, now, if you have the courage to do what you 
have said, I will take your arm and go with you, on 
foot, if need be, through the streets, to the police sta- 
tion. On the day when you must stand before the 
court to answer for your wrong, I will stand there by 
your side. Afterwards, if I may not, as your wife, 
— 271 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


share your prison cell, I will hold your hand through 
the iron bars. I will spend every cent of my fortune, 
if need be, to help you. If they send you to the state’s 
prison, I will move heaven and earth for your pardon. 
If I do not succeed, I will be at the prison gate on the 
day when your term expires, and I will go out into the 
world by your side and help you fight the battle of life, 
until death us do part.” 


— 272 — 


A LETTER RETURNED, 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A LETTER RETURNED. 

I hope the intelligent reader will not need to be told 
that a cool, wary man of affairs, like me, could not 
really have the slightest intention of surrendering to 
the police, if it could be helped. I had, in fact, made 
the offer as a threat — to make her feel she was going 
too far. The frequenters of the Rock Crystal would 
have called the move a “bluff.” The ignominious 
failure of it distressed me greatly. I staggered back to 
the bench, sat down, covered my face with my hands 
and groaned aloud. Judith came and sat beside me. 
She took my hands and drew them down. 

“It is an awful ordeal for you, George dear. I am 
not unmindful of that; but perhaps the Lord is show- 
ing you an open door to a better life. ‘My ways are 
not your ways, saith the Lord.’ ” 

“Yes,” I said, “an awful ordeal— as you say. It is 
quite wonderful to observe the fortitude with which 
some people can contemplate an ordeal like that — 
when other people have to undergo it. Am I to sup- 
pose you have hunted me down, have caught me and 
caged me, that you might have the pleasure of my 
company to the police station?” 

— 273 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


“Did I misunderstand you? Surely you proposed it? 
Was it not you who said that life and liberty had not 
enough sweetness to tempt you to receive them at my 
hands? Was it not you who asked the man yonder 
the way to the nearest lock-up? Oh — I almost began 
to hope the man I loved really had an existence.” 

“Yes, yes, I said it. I am half wild and I ought 
not to be held bound by all the extraordinary things 
I may say. Have you considered that what you ask 
me to do does not mean disgrace alone, but death? 
Have you thought of Gilbert and Beulah?” 

“Gilbert? I do not know Gilbert. Beulah is the 
name of your sister, but — I do not know what you 
mean.” 

“Oh well, Gilbert is a sort of family nickname for 
my brother Charles. We often called him Gilbert — 
I forget how it began. As to what you propose, I 
do not deny there would be heroism in it — ^just the 
sort of sentimental heroism, in fact, to appeal to a 
man of my temperament; but for a man to send his 
brother and sister to jail, while he shows off before 
the world as a hero, would be to carry things rather 
far, would it not?” 

I suppose she had not thought of it in that light, for 
she did not reply at once. At length she said: 

“But you said something about death. What did 
you mean?” 


— *274 — 


A LETTER RETURNED, 


What I meant was that Gilbert would kill me if he 
even suspected that I intended to confers to the au- 
thorities ; but of course I could not explain that to her. 
My mention of his name was a blunder — not the least 
of several blunders I had recently made; and this was 
the more to be regretted because it led me on to add 
one more lie to the long list of my sins. 

“What did I mean by death? It should be clear 
enough. My sister would kill herself rather than en- 
dure the shame of seeing me sent to jail on a criminal 
charge. Are you aware, furthermore, that the part 
she has played in this business must make her par- 
ticeps criminis, in contemplation of the law? What- 
ever you may think of my brother and sister, I cannot 
forget that they have been as father and mother to 

if 

me. 

“And your sister loves you very dearly? And she 
might die of grief? It is easy to believe it. If her dis- 
tress could be so extreme when she knew you only 
pretended to be dead, one shudders — Was that really 
what you meant when you spoke of death ?’^ 

“What else could I mean?’^ 

“I do not know what else you could mean,’^ she 
said wearily. “So far I haye failed to discover any 
meaning in anything you have done or said — except 
that you are the most consummate hypocrite alive.” 

She rose and stood by the end of the bench. 

-275 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


“To think,” she said, with a little, mirthless laugh, 
“that there are people who deny the good old Baptist 
doctrine of total depravity. Well, I have no right to 
constitute myself adviser for the Ward family — even 
though, as to one member of it, I offered to purchase 
the right at something of a sacrifice; but the offer is 
rejected, it seems. Let it go. I am tired of all this. 
And now, Mr. George William Ward, give me your 
attention for a moment. I am about to favor you with 
another short speech — the last, I think, you will ever 
hear from my lips.” 

There was a plenty of color in her cheeks now, and a 
bright, angry look in her eyes. 

“I have been a fool,” she said, “and must pay the 
price of folly, like other fools. When I discovered 
that the man who now lies buried yonder in Janeville 
was not you, I employed an agent to seek you. I 
sent him to find a man I loved and honored above all 
other men. He found, instead, a thief. No, keep 
your seat. The word does you no wrong as you well 
know. He found, as I say, a thief — a murderer too, 
no doubt — I dared not inquire into the mystery of 
yonder poor body. Yesterday I stood between you 
and danger. You well know how, and where. I did 
it at some cost of self-respect — if you could but com- 
prehend the fact. I even put my good old father to 
the torture and wrung his dear, loving heart; God 
— 276 — 


A LETTER RETURNED, 


forgive me. Why? I suppose the sufficient reason 
is that, I am a woman. To-day, being a woman, I 
offered to become a felon’s wife, if so I might help 
him to lead a better life. It was a safe offer, as it 
turned out, but I meant it with all my soul. Well, 
there are some things I will not do, even for you. I 
am perhaps a foolish woman in your eyes — I am one 
in my own; but I am an honest one, wise or foolish. 
As my Creator will bear witness, I have never, in all 
my life, coveted aught that was my neighbor’s. I 
draw the line of my folly at the point which separates 
honesty from dishonesty. In this case I have knowl- 
edge of a conspiracy to rob, and I will not connive at 
a felony, though I may save the felon. You have a 
clear head, if not a clean heart, and you know that 
if I allow this crime to be consummated, having power 
to prevent it, I become what you just now described 
as particeps criminis — is not that the right phrase? 
This, now, is my final word. You shall not commit 
this crime if I can prevent it. I need say no more 
to one so astute. Save yourself and your accomplices 
in any way that seems good to you, but the insurance 
people must be released from your supposed claims 
against them; and I must know that it is done. Then 
you may go your way, and I pray God I may never 
meet you again in this world.” 

She waved me aside from the path and went toward 
— 277 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


the house; the door opened and closed behind her, and 
I was left to the uncongenial society of the red-haired 
man. 

Crushed, helpless, undone! Danger in the very air 
about me. I sat there idly, feeling there was urgent 
need to do something, yet unable to think of any- 
thing to do. I do not know how long I sat there — 
several hours probably, for it was noon when the man 
touched me on the shoulder and signed for me to fol- 
low him into the house. 

In my room a lunch had been prepared for me; I 
ate it with a sort of stupid wonder that I could eat at 
all, finding a sort of idiotic pleasure in comparing 
myself to a soldier living off the enemy, in the enemy’s 
country. When the meal was ended and the man had 
cleared the table, leaving me alone in the room, I 
forced myself to look the situation squarely in the face. 
I took myself grimly to task for the almost unaccount- 
able series of blunders I had perpetrated that morning. 

In the first place, I had committed that fatal error 
which the wisest of men commit in dealing with wom- 
en: I had taken Judith at her word when she was 
angry, allowing her to leave me in that abrupt way, 
when I should have detained her — surely an easy 
thing for a man of my adroitness — until the interview 
could be brought to some more satisfactory conclu- 
sion. True, she was by no means an ordinary woman; 

— 278 -- 


A LETTER RETURNED, 


she was, in fact, a very superior woman; yet she was a 
woman. 

In the second place, I had missed a golden oppor- 
tunity when she so unexpectedly acquiesced in my 
offer to surrender to the police. The ridiculous, un- 
dignified haste with which I had tried to extricate my- 
self from that dilemma could not but lower me in her 
estimation. I should have “stood pat,” as we used to 
say at the Rock Crystal, making some slight amend- 
ment to the offer, involving some little delay. What I 
needed now, above all things, was time. Plainly, I 
had made an ass of myself. Let me say that the man 
who has the grace to make that kind of admission, to 
himself, is by no means asinine, paradoxical as the 
statement may appear. 

I resolved to make what haste I could to correct the 
blunder, inwardly praying it might not be too late. 
Fortunately there were writing materials in the room, 
and then and there I composed the letter which is 
given below. The reader will presently know how 
it happens that I can reproduce it here: 

“My Darling: — 

I feel that I have neither wit, nor worth, neither action, 
nor the power of words, to express in any adequate way my 
sense of the strength, purity and nobility of your character 
as revealed to me in our interview this morning. In all 
humility and lowliness of heart, I admit that in courage, in 
honor, in force of character— in all things which belong to 

— 279 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


real worth and goodness, you are as high above me as the 
heavens are high above the earth. When I think of the 
events of to-day and yesterday, I am crushed to the ground 
by a sense of my own unworthiness. Can it be that an un- 
kind fate has separated us for time and for eternity? My 
very soul quakes at the thought; yet if it be so, I shall carry 
your dear image in my heart while I live — yea, after I have 
ceased to live in this world. Darling, I know I must appear 
very weak and cowardly to you; but try, I beseech you, to 
feel some compassion for a sorely tempted man, beset by 
awful perils. I pray you to believe that when I appeared 
before you this morning, I seemed, to myself, utterly friend- 
less and forlorn; I felt as a wolf at bay, who must fight for 
life and liberty or be pulled down and destroyed. Is it any 
wonder that, unnerved, terrified, despairing, I made the mis- 
takes which such as I invariably make under such circum- 
stances? In my abject terror and misery, is it any wonder I 
could not rise to your moral level? Alas, how could that 
be possible? Yet, now I perceive you were right; your way 
was the one right way open for me. To undo the wrong, 
if possible; to prevent further wrong — certainly that was the 
right way — the Lord’s way. Now, your noble offer to share 
my shame and disgrace touches my very heart, my very 
soul, and utterly subdues the selfish coward within me. 
Well beloved, I will do as you say. I promise it here, over 
my sign manual. Yet, I have now an appeal to make to you, 
as to the only one who can help me, in my extremity. I cry 
out to you as a drowning man may cry among the billows. 
Behold how bitter is the cup I must drink, if I do this thing! 
I doubt if you, even you, can realize its exceeding bitterness. 
Will you come to my aid? Will you yet stand by me, as you 
offered? Will you not, for God’s sake, do even more? May 
I not call you wife before my awful crucifixion begins — before 
I don that dreadful, infamous livery of shame? From the 
altar I will go to the sheriff and submit to whatever the out- 


— 280 — 


A LETTER RETURNED. 

raged laws of my country may inflict. Selfish, yes, utterly 
selfish is the request I make, but I pray you to remember 
what moral coward it is that makes it. Henceforth, if he 
have any strength at all, it must come from God and from 
you. I need you by my side lest I fall again under the in- 
fluence of those who first tempted me. Sweetheart, will you 
not answer this at once, as I would have it answered? Do this 
for the sake of the unfortunate being whose one redeeming 
virtue is that he loves you and is able to appreciate your 
transcendent worth. Yours till death,” 

“George William Ward.” 

Just now, when I re-read this letter, with a view to 
copying it here, my eyes grew moist, even as on the 
day when it was first written. If ever I put heart, 
mind and soul into any work of a literary character, 
I put them into the composition of this paper. It went 
to its destination that afternoon, carried by Jason Mc- 
Curdy. I was not as depraved as the reader may im- 
agine from the perusal of these pages. I was only 
desperate, driven into a corner, compelled to fight for 
life. For, let it be remembered, this was an issue of 
life and death with me. To betray Gilbert was of 
itself no light matter, as I well knew. Moreover, I 
was deeply implicated in the killing of the man at 
El Agua, although not intentionally so. It would be 
exceedingly hard for me to explain my connection 
with that matter, in any court of justice, so as to es- 
cape conviction as an accessory. The unrav_eling of 
this case in all its complications, was not to be thought 
— 281 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


of. But I meant no harm to Judith. I loved her. 
Let that be understood. I never for one moment in- 
tended to wrong her in any way. Yes, I was aware of 
my marriage with Beulah when I wrote the missive. 
But I argued that Judith, having gained her point 
on the main contention, might perhaps yield a little on 
minor points. I would plead with her, for at least a 
brief engagement — a little period of paradise before 
entering prison, that hell on earth. I thought she 
might grant me that. This would give me the oppor- 
tunity to deal with Gilbert, and a chance to show 
him and Beulah that marriage with Judith was neces- 
sary to the safety of all of us. A divorce could be 
obtained quietly, and then I could marry Judith. 

I admit that, in one respect, there was treason in 
my heart against her, from her point of view. Once 
married, I should refuse outright to do anything so 
absurd and childish as to send myself to the state’s 
prison. Treacherous, no doubt, as some people may 
view it. Yet it was a treachery which, as I verily be- 
lieved, would prevent the wrecking of two lives — hers 
and mine. As to the insurance companies? Well I 
could not do much for them, under the circumstances ; 
but I had resolved not to touch any of the money 
myself. In fact, I relied upon my renunciation in that 
matter as a trump card, so to speak, with Beulah and 
Gilbert. Beulah might take it as alimony, if she chose. 

— 282 — 


A LETTER RETURNED. 


The paltry money was nothing to me, when weighed 
against my deep love for Judith. 

So much by way of explanation. The reader can 
accept it or let it go. Let that man who, in my con- 
dition, would have acted otherwise, cast the first stone 
at me. I am aware I cannot strike any very high 
moral attitude here, and I am not going to try. I can 
only give my word, for what it may be worth. I had 
no thought of harming Judith. I think I would have 
deceived her, for her own good. I leave it all with 
Him who planted the instinct of self-preservation in 
the human heart. 

Late that afternoon McCurdy returned and handed 
me an unsealed envelope containing two papers. One 
was my own letter returned — which explains how I 
have been able to reproduce it. It lies here on my 
desk. On the outside of the last sheet, hardly de- 
cipherable now, are the following words, written with 
a lead pencil in Judith’s handwriting: 

“If you will take the trouble to read the document in- 
closed herewith, you will perhaps understand why I must 
decline to accept the very high honor you have offered me. 

JUDITH WYMORE.” 

The other paper proved to be a letter addressed to 
McCurdy. On the date line was the name of a town — 
Pinktown, Iowa. The moment I saw that ill-omened 
word I knew the scoundrely spy had played me another 
— 283 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


scurvy trick. It was the most dastardly blow of all, 
for it dashed the cup of happiness from my lips for- 
ever. I gnashed my teeth and said in my heart, “May 
the Lord do so and so to me, and more also, if I make 
not this a sorry day’s work for this villain!” A wild, 
vain threat, which the Lord would not let me fulfill. 
Here is the letter: 

“Dear Mac: 

Things have panned out here better than I expected. I 
congratulate you on your idea of looking into the matter of 
the visit of the Ward family to this place just before the dis- 
appearance of ‘Brother George’. They put up at the very 
hotel where I am staying. I showed the landlady a photo- 
graph of George, and gave her a description of the charm- 
ing Beulah. When she saw the picture she exclaimed: 

‘Yes, yes, I remember him! Well, I should say! That is 
the Missouri bridegroom who fainted!’ 

“This was a stunner. But it was even so. At the court 
house here there is the returned marriage license, the date 
corresponding with the date of their visit. However, the 
name of the bridegroom is not Ward at all, but Michael 
Carmichael; and the name of the bride is not Ward, but 
Miss Beulah Gilbert. I called upon the minister who married 
them. After I had refreshed his memory by showing him 
the picture, he remembered the case perfectly, and referred 
to the fainting of the bridegroom — the only instance of that 
kind he had ever seen or heard of. I suppose it is true 
enough; he did faint — and small blame to him. The parson 
showed me his own record of the marriage of Mr. Michael 
Carmichael to Miss Beulah Gilbert. Date corresponds with 
the day of their visit here. Of course the story of the faint- 
ing fit helped to fix the matter in the minds of several people 

— 284 — 


A LETTER RETURNED. 


about the place, so that I have been able to corroborate the 
description of the parties. When I go to Janeville, I shall be 
able to compare notes with the person from whom they hired 
the team. I go tomorrow and will await further orders 
there. How does this strike you? Developing rather queer 
features, is it not? Yours truly,” 

“J. H. KING.” 

“You appear to be a little upset,” said McCurdy, 
when I had finished. “Enough to upset a man of bet- 
ter nerve. Though, candidly, there is not much the 
matter with your nerve. Considering the nature of the 
letter you sent to the young lady to-day, there is cer- 
tainly nothing wrong with your nerve. I should have 
said the contents of my partner’s letter might very 
well upset even a man of your coolness.” 

“Did she show you my letter?” I demanded. 

“No, no. Not at all — not at all. She returned it by 
me in an unsealed envelope, along with King’s let- 
ter. I read it in the street car, on my way home. Not 
very honorable, eh? Well, if you’re a stickler for 
honor, I am ready to apologize, I am sure.’' 

No use to quarrel with him. I asked him to let me 
keep King’s letter and he consented, as this was only 
a typewritten copy of the original, made for Judith. 

He then told me, he had consented, with great re- 
luctance, for a consideration, to steer me clear of the 
penitentiary, if it could be done, on condition that I 
must give up all attempts on the insurance people, 
— 285 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


both for myself and Gilbert. He frankly admitted he 
had done his best to persuade Judith to let him put 
me “behind the bars,” not that he had any grudge 
against me, but because the case, if given the pub- 
licity he thought it deserved, would be a “feather in 
his cap,” and a great advantage to his business. All 
his arguments availed nothing, even after the receipt 
of his partner’s letter. He said, he had pointed out to 
her the probability that a darker crime than swindling 
lay back of the affair; but, while she admitted that I 
was depraved enough for anything, she declared that 
no punishment inflicted upon me could restore the 
dead to life. 

“I never break faith with a client,” he said, in con- 
clusion. “She pays me for my help and I am very 
much at your service. But if I am to be of use, you 
must give me a plain, unvarnished history of this 
whole affair. Tell me about the people with whom 
you are associated, for it is clear they are not your 
brother and sister. Whose body is this you have bur- 
ied, and how did you come into possession of it? It 
is for you to say, of course, how far you will trust 
me, but it may be well for you to remember that I 
already know a good deal to your detriment, so that 
a little more will not matter much to you. I can 
advise you better if I know the facts.” 

I asked him to give me time to consider and he 
— 286 — 


A LETTER RETURNED, 

readily consented. Next morning, after breakfast, he 
came to my room and I told him as much of my story 
as I could. I told him nothing about Gopher City 
and my reasons for leaving there. I admitted the con- 
spiracy, but I did not give him any account of the El 
Agua end of the affair. I said our plan at first con- 
templated the finding of a body, to be procured in 
some way, to be dressed in my clothes, with the fea- 
tures mutilated beyond recognition. That part of the 
programme was left in Gilbert’s hands, to be attended 
to after my disappearance. I said that Gilbert had 
visited a hospital in Kansas City to see a man who 
was thought to resemble me. The resemblance was 
so great that, when the man died, Gilbert had him ex- 
humed from the potter’s field. The man had been 
found in a north-end alley, with the injuries upon his 
body already described. I said I had no doubt it was 
young Wickham. I told him Gilbert had saved my 
life, which fact accounted for his influence over me, 
at first. Then I gave him a very complete and cir- 
cumstantial account of the way I had been entrapped 
into a marriage with Beulah. I wished him, or rather 
Judith, through him, to know the truth of that scan- 
dalous outrage. Also I was, I confess, so forlorn, for 
the time being, so heart-sick, that I yearned for sym- 
pathy — the sympathy of a dog would have been grate- 
ful to me. Spy and informer as he was, I should 
^287 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


have been glad of even McCurdy’s compassion. In 
this dark, treacherous affair there had been at least 
one thing wherein I had suffered gross wrong, one 
matter in which I had been more sinned against than 
sinning. But the only effect of my story upon Mc- 
Curdy was to make him laugh. He laughed so long 
and so loud that I felt utterly disgusted at his coarse- 
ness and brutality. I could not see the joke then, and 
I have never been able to discover it since. 


— 288 — 


CROSSING THE RIVER. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

CROSSING THE RIVER. 

McCurdy listened patiently to my story. When it 
was finished, I could see, or imagined I could see, that 
he was much impressed either by the matter or the 
manner of it. 

“You tell your tale very well,” he said, “as I ex- 
pected you would, when I gave you time to prepare 
it. Some of it is true, I dare say, though, of course, 
I cannot say how much. I would give something to 
know the truth about that poor fellow they found in 
the box. Never mind. I know enough to enable me 
to advise you. 

“In my opinion, the best thing you can do is to go 
to your accomplices and tell them exactly how the 
case stands. That should be sufficient. They will 
abandon the game when they know they must. There 
is an opportunity for your alleged brother to play the 
part of the high-minded, Christian gentleman. He 
will know how to do that, to the queen’s taste. He 
will not press for payment of his policies, not because 
he has any doubt of the justness of his claim, but be- 
cause he fears people will talk, on account of the pro- 
ceedings here. He never did want his brother to in- 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


sure his life anyway — tried hard to keep him from it, 
in fact. Maybe the companies will believe him, maybe 
not; but they will accept his policies, if he will return 
them, and let it go at that. If they give you no trouble, 
nobody else will. Do you see?” 

“I see. You think this is the best way. What, in 
your opinion, would be the next best?” 

“The next way will prove more difficult. You will 
have to open negotiations with the companies your- 
self. They might agree, for the sake of the informa- 
tion you could give them, to keep you out of the pen 
— if possible. Some of them might even put up a little 
money if you consent to give up your partners in in- 
iquity.” 

“How much do you suppose they might put up?” 
I asked. 

“I have no idea. Am not sure they would give one 
cent; they might think they had been extremely liberal 
in saving you from the penitentiary. Hard thing to 
manage — difficult and dangerous; better try the other 
way.” 

“Very well,” I said, “only, I warn you, if the first 
way fails, the other never will be tried — ^by me.” 

“No? Why?” 

“If you knew Gilbert you would not ask why. Dead 
people cannot try experiments — on this side of the 
river.” 

— 290 — 


BEFORE I HAD TIME TO CRY OUT A WORD OF WARNING THE BLOW FELL. Page 296. 




CROSSING THE RIVER. 


“Nonsense, my friend, sheer nonsense. You should 
know better than that, by your own experience. Your 
criminal is always a coward, all blood-and-thunder 
novels to the contrary notwithstanding. Sometimes, I 
grant you, under sudden impulse of terror and des- 
pair, the law-breaker may do desperate things. But 
give your friend time for the cold palsy to creep in — 
the cold palsy that strikes in to the marrow of the 
bones, as the grim, passionless grip of the law is felt 
at the throat of the malefactor; let him feel his feet 
entangled in the iron meshes of society’s drag-net, 
and he will become as tame as a sucking dove. Never 
fear.” 

“As you please,” I said; “but beware of overmuch 
confidence in theories when you deal with Gilbert. 
The exception which proves the rule may occur at any 
moment. If I have to go to that man, on this errand, 
I would rather have a bullet-proof coat for my pro- 
tection than any fine spun theories about the cow- 
ardice of the criminal classes. I tell you, if this plan 
fails, there will be no other for me, this side of the 
'jasper walls.’ Do you advise me to go to Gilbert be- 
fore he leaves St. Brandan?” 

“He left St. Brandan this morning. I suppose he 
will write to you. You should return to your lodging 
and wait there to hear from him. But please remem- 


— 291 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


ber, your every movement ■will be watched. If you 
try to play any tricks — so much the worse for you/^ 

"‘Am I to understand/’ I said indignantly, “that this 
whole business is known to your spies — beg pardon, 
employes?” 

“You are to understand that my people know noth- 
ing about you. Mr. King, whose letter you read, is 
my partner in business. You have nothing to fear 
from him — if you play fair with me.” 

Several letters passed between me and Gilbert, 
within the next ten days. McCurdy saw all the let- 
ters, of course, and dictated those I sent. My first 
letter made known to my co-conspirators all that had 
happened and the consequent necessity of abandoning 
the whole enterprise. Very much to the gratification 
of McCurdy, and also very much to my surprise, Gil- 
bert’s letter in reply was a frank acknowledgment of 
defeat. It was even cheerful in tone. Among other 
things, he said: 

“It appears we have played our small game and 
are beaten. That is all there is to it. Let me know 
at once what your friend Mac wishes me to do. Am 
very much at his service, ready to accommodate him 
to any reasonable extent. I say this the more cheer- 
fully because I recognize, in our adversary, a man of 
brains. I feel less humiliation in surrendering to a 
man like that.” 


— 292 — 


CROSSING THE RIVER, 


'Tell him,” said McCurdy. “I require a written his- 
tory of this whole conspiracy, properly drawn, and 
signed by both of you. I will place that in the hands 
of Miss Wymore, and you and your friends may go 
where you will.” 

I then suggested that this was rather hard on us, 
as it left documentary proof of our secret to pass 
through the hands of himself, his partner King, and 
Judith. 

"Young man,” he said, drily, "it is written some- 
where, 'Whatsover a man sows that shall he also reap.’ 
I am not here to guarantee that this particular crop, 
sown by you and your accomplices, will be pleasant 
to reap. But at least you have here a choice of har- 
vests, in which respect you are better off than others 
who sow the same kind of grain. Begin now and reap, 
one way or the other, for the harvest time is surely 
come.” 

I wrote to Gilbert, who, in turn, wrote and pro- 
posed a meeting to settk all details. As he did not 
want to come to St. Brandan, and as I could not go 
to Janeville, it was finally arranged that we meet at 
Calypso, Missouri. He urged several reasons why he 
wished us to meet him there. In that neighborhood 
lived an old friend — one of the few thoroughly honest 
friends he had. The man was an old, ex-Confederate 
soldier whose life Gilbert had saved. Under his roof 


— 293 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 

we could meet and part, and no questions would be 
asked by our entertainer. All else he left in our 
hands; the only boon he would ask was that he should 
surrender, since he must surrender, with this old, tried 
friend near him. 

It was a gloomy, sultry day when we left St. Bran- 
dan for Calypso. For hours our train bore us onward, 
sometimes through showers of rain, sometimes 
through bright sunshine. The sun was disappearing 
behind the hills, when we left the cars at Calypso, a 
wretched place, containing not more than half a dozen 
houses. Gilbert was waiting for us and when the 
train moved away, he shook me warmly by the hand, 
apparently much rejoiced to see me. I introduced Mc- 
Curdy. 

'‘We may shake hands, I hope,’’ said Gilbert, “if 
only to show we have no ill will.” 

There was not a living soul visible about the place, 
except the members of our party. Gilbert led the way 
to where three horses were hitched to a rack near the 
station. We mounted and rode away, in the direction 
of some heavy timber which lay south of the railroad 
track. As we proceeded along the dim way I ob- 
served that the tops of the trees seemed aflame with 
the light of the setting sun. Gilbert rode by the side 
of McCurdy, while I followed some distance in the 
rear. 


— 294 — 


CROSSING THE RIVER. 


“By the way,” I heard him say, “I met a friend of 
yours in Janeville — man named King. As he seemed 
anxious to see you, I persuaded him to come along. 
He is at my friend’s house with my sister. Both 
wanted to come to meet you, but there were only 
three horses.” 

“I was just thinking of King,” said McCurdy, with 
a laugh. “Glad you persuaded him to come.” 

Presently we came to a river — no matter what river. 
The twilight was fading rapidly when we halted, for a 
moment, at the ford. I could dimly see the road where 
it emerged, at a point diagonally across the stream, 
below the place where we must enter. Gilbert exam- 
ined the banks above and below. 

“It is about two hours since I crossed, and the river 
was rising then. I think it is rising now. It is always 
well to be careful about these mountain streams. They 
are never very muddy, whether high or low; and they 
are always swift. Sometimes they rise very suddenly 
from rains far up in the hills, and it is not always easy 
for a man not thoroughly familiar with them to tell 
whether they are safe. However I hardly think the 
water here will be high enough to compel the horses 
to swim. In any case, remember the animals are used 
to swimming. If you have no experience in guiding 
horses under such circumstances, let them alone. Do 
not pull on the reins, and keep your feet out of the 
— 295 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 

water, if you can. Gilbert and McCurdy entered first; 
by the time I was ready to start I saw that both their 
horses were swimming. I noticed that, when Mc- 
Curdy drew up his feet to keep them from the water, 
they still remained in the stirrups, his feet being rather 
large and the stirrups rather small. I noticed also, 
with some surprise, that the two entered the river 
almost side by side — an unsafe thing to do, it seemed 
to me, especially as Gilbert’s horse, which was on the 
up-stream side, was drifting down in such a way that 
a collision seemed inevitable. In a little while not 
more than a couple of feet separated the two, McCurdy 
being a little in advance. Suddenly, Gilbert shifted his 
reins to his right hand. He made a movement with 
his left, which at first I did not understand. A little 
later he raised his arm, I saw a dull gleam of metal, 
and perceived that he had drawn a revolver. McCurdy 
had seen neither movement, being intent upon the 
management of his horse. Before I had time to cry 
out a word of warning, the blow fell. The heavy 
weapon came down with crushing force, and, without 
a cry or a groan, the man rolled out of his saddle and 
fell into the river. His foot, on the down stream side, 
slipped out of the stirrup, but the other held; the stir- 
rup leather was thus drawn across the saddle so that 
McCurdy hung with his head in the water. The fall 
of the rider confused the horse; he plunged a little, 
— 296 — 


CROSSING THE RIVER. 


changed his course, and swam straight down the 
stream, dragging the half-submerged body of the spy. 
My memory retains a very vivid impression of that 
scene — the gathering darkness, the rushing river, the 
high banks on either side, the green trees arching 
toward each other from opposite shores, the horse 
swimming gallantly away into the gloom below, the 
man hanging with one leg across the saddle. 

In the contemplation of that dreadful scene I had 
for the moment, neglected to attend to my own safety. 
We were now approaching the other shore. In fact 
Gilbert’s horse had already found a footing, though 
fully ten feet from the dry land, and his saddle girth 
was out of the water. I now discovered, to my great 
alarm, that my horse had drifted so far it was doubtful 
if he would make the landing. I turned his head more 
up stream, and the intelligent creature seemed to un- 
derstand the situation. Right here the current ran 
with unusual swiftness, yet, for a moment, we ap- 
peared to gain a little; then we seemed to be station- 
ary. By this time Gilbert had reached the shore and 
had turned to look at me. 

“Help, for God’s sake!” L shouted. 

“Give my compliments to your friend McCurdy, if 
you meet him again,” was the mocking reply, “or 
rather when you meet him again. Tell him his friend 


297 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


King is not lost, but gone before — gone to the place 
where all good people of his vocation go/' 

He raised his hand — the hand which still held the 
weapon with which he had struck his unfortunate vic- 
tim. A little circle of red fire seemed to flicker about 
the muzzle, but if there was any report I did not hear 
it. I felt a sensation as if some one had stabbed me, 
through and through, with a rough, jagged icicle. I 
did not quite lose consciousness, for I remember think- 
ing what a long, long distance it was to the bottom of 
the river and, after my feet struck the hard, rocky bot- 
tom, what a long, long distance it was to the top. I 
had not thought the ocean could be so deep. The 
abnormal quickness of the human mird, under such 
conditions, has often been mentioned. I verified it in 
my own case, for in the few seconds of my submer- 
sion, I convinced myself, by a logical chain of reason- 
ing, that I could not be fatally hurt — could not be dy- 
ing at least, because a dead man, or a dying man, 
would not be so interested in the depth of the water. 
I am not so sure of the soundness of this reasoning 
now, but it comforted me then. 

It was well for me I was a good swimmer and had 
the diver’s instinct to hold my breafli when I fell. 
Luckily, the water was not cold. I fell into the stream 
close to the side on which my would-be assassin stood ; 
this, as it chanced, was a circumstance — a providential 
-298 — 


CROSSING THE RIVER. 

circumstance, in my favor. For there was a high, 
rocky bank on his right, as he stood facing the ford, 
and the stream curved round it in such a way that, 
beyond it, he could not see the surface close in shore. 
I came up with such force that half my body was pro- 
jected out of the water, so that he must have seen me 
if the current had not borne me below, and around, 
this point. Naturally I gasped for breath the moment 
my head emerged; and of course some of the water 
w’hich streamed over my face was drawn into my wind- 
pipe; but the noise of the stream, as it ran between the 
high ledges of rock on either side, together with the 
noise of the evening wind among the trees, drowned 
the sound of the coughing I could not avoid. The 
man who has learned to swim will swim instinctively 
when thrown into water of sufficient depth. As for me, 
although this world is all a fleeting show for man’s 
illusion given, I could not resign it without a struggle, 
hov/ever hopeless the struggle might seem. Within a 
few feet, at my right, the high, precipitous ledges 
slipped by. In some places they overhung the river, 
but nowhere did they offer a foothold, or a point that 
could be grasped. Bushes grew in crevices, here and 
there, but always too high for me to reach. By the 
lingering remnant of the twilight, I could see that the 
other shore was much like this one; in any case, with 
my failing strength, I dared not risk the struggle v/ith 
— 299 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


that terrible current, which an attempt to cross would 
render necessary. I knew I was wounded badly, if not 
fatally; that I must be losing blood; that my only 
chance lay in husbanding my strength; so I limited my 
exertions to keeping my head above the water, allow- 
ing the stream to carry me where it would. 

Presently the direction of the current changed, set- 
ting in toward the other side. I was wondering if I 
could possibly hold out long enough, when something 
loomed darkly before me. I thrust out my hand and 
touched the side of a horse. It was the one from which 
I had fallen. My touch frightened him, and he 
plunged a little; but he became quiet v/hen I spoke to 
him soothingly. I did not try to get upon his back, 
but caught him by the tail and let him tow me. It 
was time. I believe I could not have kept my head 
above water for five minutes longer. I now observed 
we were being carried round a bend in the stream. 
It seemed to me also we were coming to a place where 
the banks were low, where bushes grew close to the 
water’s edge. In fact, a little tributary brook entered 
the river just here. Along the bank on either side 
the ground was level and covered v/ith bushes. The 
high water of the larger stream had filled the channel 
of the smaller with backwater, flooding the low 
ground, so that only the tops of the brushwood were 
visible. The horse had sense enough to make for this 
- 300 - 


CROSSING THE RIVER. 


place. He was well in among the branches before his 
feet touched bottom. Beyond the bushes the banks of 
the tributary were tolerably steep, but not so steep the 
horse could not climb them. I let go of him before he 
made the attempt. I caught hold of a bush and found 
I could touch bottom, the water being up to my shoul- 
ders. When the animal got to the top of the bank, I 
followed him, dragging myself up by shrubs and roots 
of trees. There were black, blue and green spots danc- 
ing before my eyes. At the top I sat down with my 
back against a tree, and resolutely fought off a feeling 
of sickness and faintness, feeling sure that if I gave 
way to it I must bleed to death. I took off my upper 
garments, rolled my undershirt into a ball and pressed 
it against my wounded side. Just then the horse, 
which had been eating grass near by, approached to 
within three feet of where I sat. The reins of his 
bridle had slipped over his head and hung dangling 
within reach of my hand. I caught them, led the beast 
close to me, and removed the bridle. I turned my 
injured side to the tree and pressed the wadded shirt 
between it and my body, to hold the bandage in its 
place, while I cut the reins from the bridle. I took 
the reins and bound the bandage to my side as well 
as I could, the leather, softened by the water, lending 
itself to my purpose very well. I then put on my 
outer shirt and coat, and got upon my feet with some 


— 301 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


dim idea of finding my way out of the woods. 1 
could not cross the brook, so I turned my back to it, 
staggered off into the woods, fell, and lost conscious- 
ness before I had gone a hundred yards. 

I think I was delirious most of the night, for I 
seemed to enact, over and oved again, the dreadful 
scenes through which I had just passed. Yet it may 
be that I had some natural sleep before morning, for 
I awoke — or returned to consciousness — to find the 
sun shining. I was in the midst of a rather dense 
cluster of bushes, but not far away I could see, through 
an opening right before my face, a small clearing 
on which two horses were grazing. One of them I 
knew for my old friend, who had towed me out of the 
river. The other was the one McCurdy had ridden. 
Its saddle was gone, and in that simple fact I read 
another page of the tragedy. The man’s weight had 
at last broken the girth, and horse and rider had 
parted company forever. 

I wondered whether I had strength to reach the 
horses and whether, in any case, it would be wise to 
attempt to ride one of them out of the woods. Be- 
fore I could make up my mind, fate decided for me. 
There appeared on the scene two boys, long-legged, 
hickory-shirted, freckled-faced fellows, the older about 
sixteen, the other about thirteen. 

‘Tap hit her fust shot!” exclaimed the younger lad. 

— 302 — 


CROSSING THE RIVER. 


‘‘He said he bet the bosses ’ud swim out at the mouth 
of Peavine crick.” 

“What yer ole man don’t know ’bout bosses ain’t 
wuth knowin’,” said the other. “But they’s one saddle 
gone and one bridle.” 

“Reckon Pap’ll make Mister Gilbert pay fur ’em?” 

“Naw. He don’t charge no old friend of his’n fur 
no bridle, nor fur no saddle nuther. ’Twan’t Mister 
Gilbert’s fault. How could he he’p these here No’th 
Missouri ignoramusses not knowin’ how to ride a boss 
acrost a river?” 

The boys transferred the bridle from McCurdy’s 
horse to the one with the saddle. While effecting the 
transfer, the younger asked: 

“Say, Jep, whar do you reckon them two pore fellers 
is now?” 

“How kin I tell? How kin anybody tell? I heard 
Mister Gilbert tell Ma, he had reason to b’lieve the 
young feller was one of the elect — though he wa’n’t no 
professor. Said he warn’t shore about the St. Bran- 
dan chap. Ain’t no tellin’ whar he’s at.” 

“Shucks ! I don’t mean that. I mean whar do you 
reckon their bodies is?” 

“Purty well down to the Osage by now, I ’spect. 
This ole river’s mighty swift, when she’s up.” 

Soon they disappeared, riding one horse and driv- 


— 303 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


ing the other before them. Evidently Gilbert had led 
them to believe we had been drowned accidentally. 

A shadow drifted across the ground before me. I 
looked up, and saw a large vulture sailing above the 
tree-tops. Then the words of Fitz-Eustace’s song 
came back to me: 

“Her wing shall the eagle flap, 

O’er the false-hearted; 

His warm blood the wolf shall lap, 

E’re life be parted!” 

Certainly the American turkey buzzard is not an 
eagle; yet, to all intents and purposes, he might very 
well represent the idea in Scott’s mind when he wrote 
that song. I began to wonder — to try to remember 
whether I had read of wolves in Southern Missouri. 

I was weak — very weak — and so thirsty. I thought 
I might try to crawl to the river and get a drink of its 
clear water. I could hear its gentle murmur within a 
stone’s throw of me and I tried to move, but my 
temples began to throb and chills passed over my 
body. I believe I went out of my head for a while. 

A succession of sharp sounds aroused me at last. 
I thought some one was firing a cannon close by, but 
I found the noise came from a remarkably ugly, yel- 
low dog, who stood barking at me a few feet away. 
He annoyed me. I wanted him to move on, yet I 
could only lie and stare at him. Then came another 
— 304 — 


CROSSING THE RIVER. 


sound. This time it was a human voice — a very soft, 
pleasant, drawling voice, such as nobody ever hears 
except from the lips of an old-time, ‘‘before-the-war’^ 
darky. 

“Why, honey! Why, de Ian* er goodness! What’s 
de marter wid you, white man? Well — de good Ian’!” 

After one or two trials I managed to articulate, 
“Water — water!” 

“To be sho’ — to be sho’. I’ll git yo’ some water, 
chile;” and he went away. It seemed an age before 
he returned, but he came at last with a bucket of water, 
and accompanied by a kind-looking Negro woman. 

They gave me water from a gourd — an old gourd 
which had been cracked and sewn together with a 
thread. The water was fresh and cold. Then they 
examined my wound. When she saw the blood- 
soaked bandage, bound to my side with the leather 
strap, the old woman cried out: 

“Bless de chile! He’s done to’ in two wid er can- 
non ball!” 

“Not so bad as that, aunty,” I said, “but bad enough 
to die, unless you can help me. Is there any house 
near, to which you can take me?” 

“Sho’ly — sho’ly,” said the old man. “Dey ain’ no 
white folks’ house closer’n a mile an’ a half. I don’t 
spec’ you could stan’ it to go dar — could you?” 

— 305 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


“No,” I said, “not if there is any other place any 
closer. Get me somewhere — anywhere, so I can get 
this wound dressed and have a bed.” 

“Melindy,” said the old man, “stay right here en 
keep de flies off’n dis yere white man, twel I go hitch 
de mule to de little wagon. We got ter tote him to our 
house en do de bes’ we kin foh him. We ain* none er 
dese yer Levites whut pass by on turrer side, when 
dey’s a man in trouble.” 

So these black Samaritans carried me to their lowly 
home and ministered unto me. They laid me upon a 
bed and dressed my hurt, which, thank Heaven, was 
not as bad as I had feared. The bullet had ploughed 
a very ugly furrow along my side, grazing one of my 
ribs. No artery, or other large blood vessel had been 
injured, yet I should have bled to death but for my 
clumsy bandage. As it was, I did not recover for a 
long time. 

The old negro was a preacher for the other negroes 
of that neighborhood — and a good man I found him 
to be; and his wife was a most excellent nurse. He 
prayed for me, night and morning, at my own par- 
ticular request. As I would naturally be expected to 
give some account of myself, I told my black bene- 
factors that I was a young man who, like that other 
man who journeyed from Jerusalem to Jericho, had 
— 306 — 





THIS TIME IT WAS A HUMAN VOICt. Page 305. 







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CROSSING THE RIVER. 


fallen among thieves; that my wicked companions, af- 
ter leading me astray, had tried to kill me; for which 
reasons I wished to escape from them and from their 
influence forever. All this was true as gospel. I cer- 
tainly had enough, and more than enough, of Gilbert 
and Beulah; and as Gilbert had reason to believe me 
dead, I might hope never to see them again in this 
world; and I was resolved so to live, henceforth, that 
there would be no danger of meeting them in the world 
to come. 

The kind old darky prayed for me, and his wife 
nursed me. I do not doubt the eflicacy of both minis- 
trations. When I got up from that bed I was, by the 
grace of Heaven, a changed man. Regarding me as a 
brand plucked from the burning, largely through his 
own prayers, the negro readily promised to keep all 
knowledge of my presence from the white people in the 
neighborhood. This was not difficult. No white peo- 
ple came near the place while I was there. Negroes 
came, but, with the characteristic secretiveness of their 
race, they respected their pastor’s wishes. I had not 
lost my money in the river, and, hence, was able to 
reward my preservers liberally — though at first they 
refused to take money for their services. 

When I was able to travel, the man showed me the 
-307 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


way to Calypso. At that lonely little station, one dark 
night, I boarded a train, unobserved by any of the 
people there, and went to Kansas City. From there 
I came, in course of time, to my old home here in 
Tudorville. 


— 308 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAELS REPENTANCE 


CHAPTER XVIIL 
MICHAEL Carmichael's repentance. 

Altogether I was in the home of my benefactors a 
little more than a month. During that time the his- 
tory of the world, beyond the precints of that humble 
cabin, was a blank to me. I arrived in Kansas City 
on the morning of August the second. The first thing 
I did, after my arrival, was to get my breakfast; the 
second, was to go to the public library to look over 
the files of the daily newspapers. From the newspaper 
files I learned, for the first time, what had happened to 
Gilbert. 

It was a favorite doctrine of that cruel, wicked man, 
that whatever happens in the life of a man, has been 
decreed before the foundation of the world. I have 
often wondered whether, in the place to which he has 
gone, he finds any comfort in knowing how wonder- 
fully the facts in his own case seem to agree with his 
pet belief. 

When he saw me go down before his murderous 
shot, he must have felt there was, practically, nothing 
between him and the insurance money. McCurdy was 
dead. King was dead, and he had every reason to be- 
lieve I was dead. Only Judith remained of all who 
- 309 - 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


knew of his wicked plans. And how could she cope 
with a subtle, conscienceless villain like Gilbert? I 
have not the slightest doubt he rode home that pleas- 
ant summer night, with heart and mind perfectly at 
rest. The killing of a couple of men would perhaps 
trouble his conscience about as much as the killing of 
a couple of squirrels. However this may be, he did, 
in fact, return to the home of his friend, where he and 
Beulah remained for a week. 

The reader will be interested to know that El Agua 
is only about thirty-five miles, by wagon road, from 
Calypso. Beulah and Gilbert, for some reason, decided 
to ride over there. They borrowed horses from their 
host and set out early one morning, intending to return 
the next day. I do not know why they did this. I have 
read of a mysterious law which inevitably operates to 
drag a murderer back to the scene of his crime. Is 
there such a law? Was this an illustration of its 
operation? 

Undoubtedly Gilbert himself had not read any 
newspapers while in the house of the old soldier who 
sheltered him. Yet, there had perhaps been no other 
seven days of his life, since he learned to read, when 
the contents of the papers could have had more inter- 
est for him. On the very day when he tried to assas- 
sinate me, a queer series of accidents in the neighbor- 
hood of El Agua had culminated in a startling sensa- 
— 310 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAELS REPENTANCE 


tion — a sensation which stirred the community from 
center to circumference; and the facts had been duly 
chronicled by the reporters for the press. Some know- 
ledge of these events may be of interest to the reader— 
especially if he believes that this world is governed by 
chance. 

In El Agua, as the reader will remember, there 
lived a family named Lindsay. In the country, about 
five miles from the town, lived a family named Lin- 
sey. Each family owned a lot in the El Agua cem- 
etery. It is a rather singular fact that, up to the time 
of Herman Lindsay’s death, nobodv had been buried 
in either lot. Now the sexton, misled no doubt by the 
similarity of names, had buried young Lindsay on the 
lot belonging to the Linseys. The mistake was per- 
haps excusable on the ground that the last named 
family lived some miles away, and were not well 
known in El Agua. Shortly before the Calypso trag- 
edy, a member of the Linsey family died, and the mis- 
take was discovered. The Lindsay’s offered to ex- 
change lots; they offered to buy any other unoccupied 
lot in the place, and deed it to the other people; but 
the head of the Linsey family, being an obstinate, pig- 
headed sort of person, would not agree; and so the 
remains had to be moved. 

Anybody can guess what happened then; and any 
man who has lived in a small town can imagine the 


— 311 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


sensation that followed. They found the murdered 
detective and they did not find the other. This hap- 
pened, strange to say, on the day when Gilbert shot 
me, and killed McCurdy. 

As already intimated, the man with the scar on his 
hand had been a member of a celebrated detective 
agency in an Eastern city. For some old misdeed, 
the nature of which I do not know, these people had 
been on Gilbert’s trail for a long time. Beulah told 
how the man with the scar had visited the house three 
times, and, on the morning after my arrival there with 
Gilbert, this mysterious stranger even attempted to 
interview Gilbert in his home. To me it is rather in- 
teresting to note how strangely the fates, or the 
destinies, or providence, seemed to draw these two men 
together. On that day, Gilbert and the detective were 
actually in the same neighborhood unknown to each 
other. Just then, for some reason, the spy gave up the 
chase and returned to his employers. Later, he was 
detailed to go to Joplin on some business for his 
agency. It appears that he finished his work there and 
came, entirely of his own motion, to El Agua, to see if 
he could pick up Gilbert’s trail. He found it, unfortu- 
nately for himself. Was it accident that the two met, 
where neither had been before, for months? The man 
was missed, of course, and his friends at the agency 
tried to find him; but they tried in vain. They may 
— 312 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEUS REPENTANCE 


have suspected that Gilbert had killed him, for they 
guessed their agent had again attempted to locate that 
desperate character; but they could not trace Gilbert 
any more than they could find their missing comrade. 

When his remains were discovered and described in 
the newspapers, his employers immediately sent two 
men to El Agua. They were furnished with complete 
descriptions of Gilbert and Beulah. One of them was 
watching the place when the brother and sister ar- 
rived from Calypso. Was this an accident? 

The man returned to the village and organized a 
posse, which, under the leadership of the sheriff, at- 
tempted to make the arrest. They failed to surprise 
Gilbert, and he was not the man to surrender. Several 
members of the posse were killed. The house was 
set on fire, and Gilbert, shielding his sister with his 
own body, as well as he could, passed through a storm 
of bullets, from the house to the stable. It is believed 
Beulah was wounded in this flight, for when they rode 
out of the barn a little later they were both mounted 
on one horse and Gilbert appeared to support her. 
Before they had gone fifty yards the animal fell, mortal- 
ly wounded, carrying his riders down and pinning them 
to the ground. When the pursuers ventured to ap- 
proach they discovered Gilbert’s left arm encircled 
Beulah’s dead form, his right hand grasped 2i revolver, 
every chamber of which was empty, and the sheriff, 
— 313 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL. 


bending over him, heard these faint words, ‘‘Com — ing, 
Beu— lah.” 

Such was the tragic but fitting climax of the career 
of the fiend who had been the sole cause of my entan- 
glement, and who shot me down when my existence 
had become a hindrance, instead of a help, to his nefar- 
ious plans. In his hands I was only a tool, unwilling 
but without power to resist; all the responsibility, here 
and beyond, must rest with him. And those who blame 
me for putting myself into Gilbert’s power I would 
remind of Wordsworth’s “men who can hear the de- 
calogue and feel no self-reproach.” 

The career of that chosen tool of Satan, who caused 
so many innocent persons much of sorrow and of pain, 
is a page from life’s drama which should teach con- 
clusively that he who breaks or transgresses the ten 
commandments must eventually pay the penalty. 

While Gilbert’s and Beulah’s death put an end to the 
insurance affair, there was some little stir and news- 
paper notoriety about the disappearance of King and 
McCurdy. If McCurdy’s body was ever found the 
papers failed to mention it. As to King, I do not know 
where or how he met his sorrowful fate. This must 
remain one of the mysterious secrets of the forrests of 
southern Missouri. 

Providence, kinder to me than many of my towns- 
people, had guided my faltering steps through many 
vicissitudes to safety, and I resolved that I could show 
— 314 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAELS REPENTANCE 


my gratitude to my Maker in no better way than by 
leading an upright, honorable life thenceforward. 

I consequently returned to the home of my boyhood, 
in Tudorville, resumed at once the practice of my pro- 
fession, and can truthfully say that, with prayer and re- 
pentance, I have kept my resolution. With one excep- 
tion, to be mentioned below, all connection with the 
weird past was severed forever, and I have learned to 
remember it only as a horrible dream. The ugly 
rumors circulated by my enemies failed to trouble my 
soul, although they may have injured me in the esti- 
mation of thoughtless people. 

As to Judith? Should I, at this late day, complain 
of her treatment of me? No. Let it go — let it all go. I 
have forgiven her from the bottom of my heart. As 
soon as I learned of Beulah’s death, I wrote to Judith. 
The letter was not answered. Three times, within the 
next twelve months, I wrote to her. Eloquent, impas- 
sioned letters they were — letters which might have 
melted a heart of stone. They were penitent letters, 
too. It is written that there is joy in heaven when a 
sinner repents; but if there was joy in Judith’s heart 
when I repented, she kept it to herself. After the first 
year, I wrote to her every six months, for four years. 
In the beginning of the sixth year, I received a letter 
from her. If I were a vain, egotistical man, as my en- 
emies say, nothing could be more in keeping with my 
character than the suppression of this letter, and noth- 
ing could be easier. Yet, because I have set out to 
— 315 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAEL, 


tell the whole truth, I will conceal nothing, at any 
sacrifice of worldly pride. If there are any people 
wha, after reading these pages, still believe I have been 
a great sinner, it may be well for them to know what 
I have been made to suffer. Here is Judith’s last letter 
to me: 

“Michael Carmichael, 

Tudorville, Missouri. 

“Sir: — 

“I send you to-day, in another package, the letters you 

have written to me since August, i8 . I have no wish to 

write anything that may seem harsh or unkind, more than 
is absolutely necessary. For, indeed, I owe you some 
thanks, and I am quite willing to pay the debt here. It was 
you who, in the providence of God, opened my eyes and 
enabled me to see you as — I think — heaven sees you. For 
this I render thanks daily, on my knees, to my Maker. And 
but for you, I might never have met the noble Christian 
gentleman whose wife I am. It ought not to be hard for you 
to believe, under the circumstances, that, if this contains 
anything to pain you, it is not there because I bear you any 
ill will. You have written much about the desolation of 
your life, and, in all your letters, you have assumed, as a 
thing about which there could be no question, that my life 
must be desolate to the same extent, and for the same rea- 
son — the reason being the failure of our marriage engage- 
ment. In that you were mistaken. It would be idle — and un- 
true, for me to say I did not suffer when I began to under- 
stand something of your true character. I am thankful to 
say that the discovery was gradual, for I did not get the 
final, hideous glimpse of your soul, until the last; lingering 
vestige of my love for you was gone from my heart. The 
final revelation came in the letter you wrote, while the blood 

— 316 — 


MICHAEL CARMICHAELS REPENTANCE 


of the unhappy creature who was your wife was still fresh 
upon her grave, announcing that you were free to enter 
into new matrimonial relations. Were you foolish enough 
to believe that I could be blind to the truth in that matter? 
Could any sane person fail to see that you were implicated 
in the murder for which your companions in crime suffered? 
Nevertheless, you were right when you so freely, and so 
copiously, dwelt upon my suffering; yet I doubt if you ever 
realized the extent or the true cause of my anguish. In all 
of your letters there is one fact which you appear to have 
overlooked. Has it never occured to you that the man to 
whom I gave my heart, was, to me, a pure, high-minded 
honorable, Christian? He was not a swindler, a thief, or a 
murderer — in fact or with intention. One day this man, whom 
I truly loved, disappeared. He did not come back. Some 
one came, indeed, — some one who bore the physical likeness 
of the man I had loved; but it was not the same. This one — 
this last, was not able to hide his soul from me, and I saw 
that it was unclean, leprous. (I hope you will pardon me. I 
do not wish to be rude. I only wish to be exact.) I thank 
God I had the will and the power to exorcise this ghost — 
this phantom who bore the likeness of the man I had loved, 
and to send it back to the dark limbo whence it came. 

“Therefore, if you are troubled lest, in losing you, I have 
missed happiness, be at rest. I am a happy woman in a 
happy home. It may interest you to know that I am married 
to the lawyer who was Mr. Wickham’s attorney in that mem- 
orable lawsuit in which you were concerned. His name, as 
you may remember, is Scantling— not a very romantic name; 
but it is the name of a good man. We have been married 
three years. I think you believe me to be truthful. Hence 
you will believe me when I say I am happy with my husband 
— and my baby boy. 

“JUDITH WYMORE SCANTLING.” 

THE END. 

— 317 — 


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